This Neat Thing I Discovered Called The Internet

I'm talking to some guy who I don't know. David spent several conversations trying to convince me that this gentleman and I would instantly become best friends. Sadly, I don't even remember his first name. I know that he lives in Nashville and has good taste in music and is humorously depressed sometimes. I know all of this from reading his blog.
Blogs are stupid. The word itself is stupid. The premise, while good, is massively abused.
I am fairly certain that blogs would not bother me if I did not expose myself to them.
It is a proven fact that the same statement rings true for world hunger.
Once I went to Mexico on a mission trip. There were plenty of starving people there. Some of them lived in cardboard boxes. That made me pretty sad.
Luckily, then I came back and had other things to worry about. Cross-country practice, IB English, and that lanky scary boy who sat behind me in English class and wore T-shirts with dragons on them and brought me chocolates and flowers on my birthday. These were all more important than the starving people. What starving people? I already forgot about them again.
Anyways. So I've been reading this guy's blog.
Blogs allow people to become fourth or fifth rate celebrities. At least eight of my friends and I constantly check these laughably horrible blogs.

When we accidentally find something utterly brilliant, we will usually call each other and read highlights out loud. Andres did this yesterday, and it brought me great amusement.

Angelica, who I can now link to, since her blog has died in a fiery storm of self-hatred, said a while ago that all romance is dead. This may or may not be true, but it is true in Greeley. Romance there seems to consist of buying someone a magical number of meals and drinks and desperately wishing that awkward moments in conversation could simply be filled with making out on a dilapidated sofabed.

I have been fortunate enough to avoid romance in the college experience, or at least the sloppy and unpleasant side of romance that ruins people's lives.

At least failed to ruin my life. I have been the object of unrequited love seven times now that I am aware of. None of these seven gentlemen were even mildly successful in their pursuit of me. I may be incapable of the emotion of 'like'. Or perhaps I'm just misdefining it.

I save my own exciting unrequited love for people who don't actually know who I am. This is a much more effective way of being secretly in love with people; otherwise they tend to find out about your feelings and such long before you would like them to. Or I just squander my unrequited love on people like Rich or David. But that's only true if unrequited love is this general idea of 'If we were in a serious relationship, I wouldn't be horribly depressed about it. In fact, it might be fine.' Which, for now, isn't how I would define love. But give it a month or so and it might devolve to that.

But I have run out of people to unabashedly give my exciting and enticing unrequited love to. Perhaps I should just channel it to a more mainstream source, such as Mark Ruffalo.

I am usually very crabby about grammatical structure. Please forgive me.





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