Pretty Petty Paperweights

I've always relied on observation as the tool to understanding the questions that you just can't ask. There are many reasons people don't ask. Mostly, they don't care. You didn't notice that i smirked? Well, you must not care. After mostly, there's social standards. You can't very well approach an acquaintance and say "What's with your desperate attempts for attention? Were you ignored by your father? Did the kids shun you at school? Do these people truly provide you with the gratification and validation that you so apparently seek?" And well, it goes the same with those people who are more than acquaintances. In the past, i've been more than confrontational with such intimate analysis, and it always goes unappreciated. Nobody really wants to think those questions, much less be expected of answering them. Nobody wants to hear them from someone like me. Well, fewer than any.
I personally find myself eternally grateful for the harsh criticisms i impose upon my own immaturity. I bask in the constant critiques of my behavior, motivations, and inner demons. My playthings. You could call me egocentric, and you'd be right, yet i think about you just as often. On this night, i felt especially nervous, i couldn't think, i couldn't do anything but focus through my flipbook-esque thought pattern. I'd think about you, feel paranoid, change the subject to another, feel even worse....and so on. I felt uneasy about my future plans, so unresolved, so up in the air and it drove me straight here, the lazy man's diary. Fine, lazy woman's.
I began by writing about the trouble closest to the surface, the power of observation. I have difficulty separating the actual entity of the observation from my own interpretation of how it relates to me. This is very misguiding, childish. Perhaps criminal.
An example, the bus driver scowls at you after you thank him for actually stopping at the stop you pressed the button for. You become confused. Why is he scowling? Did he scowl at the previous departing passengers? Is it you? Did you press the button too close to the stop? Do you appear unfriendly? Are you weird looking? Is it him? Does he hate his job? Is his health suffering from sitting 40 hours a week? Is his wife a dirty whore? Or is his face in permanent scowling position? All these questions and more could be the one or the entire collection of why i waste time thinking about such trivialities. Why does my brain always gravitate toward the pointless?
Then to think of how this obsession with trivialilites affect my observations of the people closest to me? I'd almost call it torturous if it wasn't so ingrained into my being as if it were a necessity, an integral. Do you ever wonder how your judgments, the words and opinions that spew from your mouth affect the ones you love or love you? God, i almost felt like i was inhabited by Montell, much like Whoopi jumping into Sam. Yuck. I don't want to make out with Montell's wife. Well, maybe.
But anyway, i can't get this thing out of my mind. You said it so matter of factly, so condescendingly as if you meant it for me.
All i'll say is that i am forever in debt to that thing that someone smart told me...."anger is just the cover for disappointment and hurt feelings". I mean that literally, i am truly in debt to that smart ass son of a bitch. Being in someone's debt is not a positive feature, i wish the English language would cut that shit out of our idiomatic usage. It's fucked up, for real.
The truth is, though, that should you cut all the bullshit and confirm what my observations so strongly suggest, i'd never talk to you again. How dare you think that way, how dare you. I'm strong enough to do that, you know. And i know that you know that, which doesn't do anything for giving my doubts any serious validation.
The nerve.