Like most of the posts on here, this one comes for no real reason and with no specific purpose. I've been reading in "my" room. The one in my parents' house that I dormified so that I could have my own space. It's nice. Except that I'm 24 and living in my parents' house. I wish I knew what life was really about. How to do it. People. Sure, I really do think that life is about people. But I don't really know what the hell that means. I have friends in town, but they're mostly in high school. If I hang out with them too much I get in trouble. I don't think I should, since I do live with my parents. Basicly I'm at their level. Maybe a little more mature. Sometimes. So I read. That's my outlet. But that's pretty lame. I think reading is good, worthwhile, and all sorts of other things, but a replacement for actually being with people? Nope. This is pretty much how I felt when I was staying with my brother. The best friends I had were Potok characters. Now they're members of the Karamozov family. I wish I knew what to do about it, but I don't.
And then there's this: as I finish writing this post I think about all of the people around the world who are actually facing hardship. None of them are spoiled enough to think about "what life's really about" or similar shit. And then, and then, I look back at a few sentences and hate my writing, when that's the thing I think I might like to do most. And the story that this links to might be the highlight of my night, since it plays a big part in my weekend: fantasy basketball.
