If God put me on this earth only to praise and serve him, then why even give me the capacity to do otherwise? Entertainment value? This idea guarantees casualty. Those with options aren’t the greatest servants. To give me a “free will” makes me look like a pawn in a competition of soul catching (Gotta catch ‘em all!! LOL!) Who’s gonna sweet talk me today? Religion makes God look like a raging douche sometimes. And maybe he just is, who knows?

If we can even loosely take the Bible (though written by men) in seriousness, I think Christianity as a whole misses the point. If there is a higher power, he realized his fault in creating what we except as angels. Lucifer was a tragedy, and he isn’t in an eternal comic book style fued with him. In the creation of us, he gave us more choices in an attempt to make us understand what he goes through. This is really what being “created in his image” means. However, in every religion we try to create an ideal. God, if that is what we should even call him/her/it, isn’t the all-seeing all-knowing figure we’ve imagined. He is more like us, but that creates a huge problem.

Life is nothing but questions, and we idealize things this way to make answers…making comfort and contentment where essentially there is none. We hope that the afterlife will give us the answers we can’t find here, but I don’t believe that is true. Is that pessimistic and bleak? As a child, I believed that it was and I was convinced that I needed some type of cure. As I grow older, the question marks seem to hold some kind of beauty. I don’t really know how to even explain that feeling.

If you can find comfort in something, I commend you. Whether it be love, religion, sex, drugs, etc. And don’t knock those of us who are still searching, or those who have found it within something you can’t agree with. It’s all we really have.

This morning marks the end of me trying to flow with society.  I decided to give a damn for a while, but it just leaves me naked. I hate everyone as much as I hate myself. None of us has control over anything, though we try to tell ourselves otherwise. If this constant mental and emotional rape is what it takes to call yourself one of the living, then I want no part of it.

Life is fucking overrated.

I just can’t do a serious rant. I think it’s because I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted at this point. This winter break has made me think far too much, and now I just want to play video games and be an alcoholic until class starts.

In other not-so-interesting news, I ended up in an interesting conversation about Lady Gaga last night. My thoughts on her have always been that  she has a sufficient singing voice, but wastes it in shit lyrics which usually only feature her stuttering the same 1-5 words. Her image is more annoying than Madonna’s bullshit in the 80’s and  just as pretentious as an Andy Warhol print. I can understand why the world is so enamored…bright colors and tits can be distracting for everyone but the visually impaired. I mean, I consider myself straight and somehow everytime I see her I get slightly confused…however, it may have a penis? No, that won’t save me. Fuck it.

Anyway, someone described her as Dada for the new millennium. Though it gives her more credit than she is probably due, I find the concept interesting and wondered why I never really thought of it.

Hugo Ball must be turning in his grave.

The tiny bit of a social life I’ve created for myself is beginning to wear on me. I’ve gotten too comfortable talking and I’m not liking the interpretations. To be specific, I am labeled as “The Bitch” by a majority of my friends. For a while it was funny, but now it’s one of those many things I laugh at for the sake of keeping everyone comfortable. See, when I’m in good spirits I get a bit hyper. I will babble on about things that I’m doing or stuff that’s just floating through my head at the time. I have a tendency to get loud, and I’ll be so excited I’ll just keep going. Everyone around me takes it as furious complaints, though I just see it as average conversation. Maybe it’s just how I was raised…I really don’t know. They’ll continuously tell me to calm down or be quiet, but in my eyes I am calm and just enjoying myself. After a while, I become just as annoyed with them as they seem to be with me…which begins an argument and usually ends in me leaving.

I tried to have a serious conversation with one of my friends about this and his suggestion was to just get used to them telling me to calm down, but I don’t think that solves anything. In fact, I am so used to them saying it I can’t ignore it anymore.  I think it’s a pretty fucked situation. The only place that my purely happy and excited self can be out and no one cares is when we’re all drunk or when I’m in a mosh pit. I mean, is that healthy? I spend about 80% of my days bouncing between indifference and suicidal, so when I am feeling great I’m tired of it being cut short. Also, the friends I have right now I consider closer than family, so knowing that I cause them any kind of discomfort kind of hurts me. I guess this seems like a pathetic rant from a teenager, but honestly, I can’t even stop crying about it while typing this.

Sometimes I wish I could still be the person I was as a kid. I wish I could just not give a shit and pull back into seclusion. I used to just drop people I had been friends with for years and not feel a thing. Now, there’s no way I could do it, I wouldn’t even know what to do with my days without them. At the same time, I’m really tired of having to hold back what’s really on my mind.

What the fuck am I supposed to do here?

Change is a bastard and his douchy brother, Time,  is really starting to piss me off. I can’t go through one day without being presented with the two, and they always storm in together. Give me a fucking break, really.  We spend all of our lives making these amazing connections only to find that everything has a stopping point. Infinity? Heh, it’s fantasy in everything but numbers…and don’t even get me started with those. People try to say that it makes us stronger…that it makes it more meaningful, but it just seems like a truck load of white lies and pretty stories we use to cover our assholes. I can’t find comfort in them, and I don’t know how any can, seriously. Life should only be described as cruel and unusual, and yet, I still love it. But don’t ask me or anyone else why.