Sorry I’ve been gone. I got my laptop taken away, but I’m back now (at least for the moment).

Well, I spent Friday night with Tadpole at a football game.

He’s like a super ninja (brown belt in Tae Kwan Do or something) so I kept wanting to test his capabilities, or mine, a little of both. So I kept insisting he do some awesome little ninja move on me, but he refused, saying it was “against his morals” or whatever. So I harassed him all night. Sometimes he’d give in and just do something dumb, that hurt for a second (like cracking my wrist, or finger or shoulder) and I just wanted to see how much I could take, but I could tell he wasn’t trying very hard which just got me more and more pissed.

And he just kept asking me if I was one of those creepy people that liked pain. And I told him I wasn’t, and tried to explain it. That I just like to push myself to the limits to see how strong I am or how much I can take.

But he didn’t get it.

And then he asked me if I was depressed and about suicide and all that kinda stuff and if he should be worried about me. It was weird, because not a whole lot of people worry about me, and it was kind of weird that he saw through me a little. And it was a little scary, because, a part of me could tell he knew. But then most of me is like, well if he knew how fragile I was, he wouldn’t be so insensitive, unless he just doesn’t care at all, because that could be a possibility.

And I put it briefly: “I’m happy about 95% of the time. And you’ve never really seen me really depressed. Trust me, you’ll know when you see it. I think committing suicide is for cowards, and that living is the greatest punishment.”

At this point, he sort of turns away from me and looks at the smoke that’s trailing through the air in the bright stadium light. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about what I’d said, or if he just didn’t feel like talking about it. Then he told me to look at the moon, and we both just sat there staring at it.

I didn’t tell him this, but I was giving him a load of crap. The honest truth is, I’m usually more sad than happy. Or, as I’ve said before, maybe not sad, but thoughtful, almost to the point of mental instability, because I can see the pathetic state our society is in, and the horrible place I’ll be soon. Or because I can see things other people can see. I’m particularly good with seeing the bad intention in people, and I have no trouble telling when someone’s being fake, or lying, or when they’re secretly judging me. If I had to put it to a percentage, I’d say I’m truly happy about 10% of the time; but I’m good at covering it up so most people can’t tell. And as I wrote in my diary, I haven’t been honestly, a long-term sort of happy in about more than a year now. Maybe the temporary kind of happy, the kind that lasts like an hour, or just pure content, but I’ve really had nothing to be happy about in a while. And I guess that’s just setting me up for something good. Because the sun always looks brighter after a long night. Right? I didn’t tell Tadpole that I think about suicide a lot, but mostly about what would happen, because I contemplate the possibilities too much. About how certain people would react, how it’d be a big deal, for a moment, before people would move on. Because I doubt there’s someone who cares about me so much that they would be hung up about my death their whole life.

Even if you really love someone, eventually you’ll get over it.

I think we underestimate the potential in people’s ability to deal with grief.

And even so, I could tell Tadpole really doesn’t get me. Maybe not yet. Maybe I should just give him more time, because he’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a while and I’d hate to lose another person just because they don’t understand how I work. Which is a pretty challenging feat all on it’s own. But even so, sometimes Tadpole just makes me feel like crap, which isn’t good. I bet he doesn’t even mean it, but like I said, I don’t really think he understands how sensitive I am. Most people don’t, because I act all tough like I can handle anything, and I pretend not to ever let anything get to me.

And it’s funny, the difference between the person I pretend to be and the person I actually am. I always play myself up to be this head-strong, stubborn, nothing-gets-to-her sort of girl, who doesn’t give a crap about anything, who’s spontaneous and fun loving and is always happy and smiling, who’s comical and loud and makes other people laugh.

When really, I think I worry too much, and I over-analyze people’s intentions. Every little word, every little touch, it all means something to me. I’ve got a good perception about what people think about other people; which is fun to play around with, but scary at the same time, because I can tell when people hate me and are still acting like my friend. In actuality, I care a great deal about what other people think about me, and I need a lot of stability from my friends since I don’t have much at home. I don’t trust anyone enough to tell them what I’m thinking, so if people really want to get in my head, they should realize the kind of stories I write are a pretty good look into my head. After all, everything I write comes directly from my fears, and desires, and just my life experiences in general. But no one cares enough about me to look into these sort of these things, because I think if they delved deeper into my persona, they’d be a little startled, and a little surprised by the person they would find.

Which is funny, I wonder how many people out there are like me, when they’re really dieing inside, but they’re afraid of what people think of them, so they pretend to be someone else. It’s subconscious for me. And it gives literal meaning to the term “second nature”. I bet there’s not a whole lot of people like that, or, at least not to the extremity I believe I possess. But I’m sure they’re out there.

It’s strange.

Tadpole’s pretty quiet about these sort of things, I wonder if he’s as simple as he plays himself up to be. I can tell he thinks about things though, because I’ve seen him in a philosophical state once or twice before, and I can tell he’s pretty smart, even though he usually denies it.

What if I’m the one who should be worrying about him?

And then two more people come to my mind.

My friend, whom I walk home with everyday, is generally very thoughtful, and I can tell he’s a genius, really, he is. Sometimes he’ll let me in on his small, yet very large, life theories, and they always fascinate me. And he likes being alone, and I wonder, what is he thinking?

Is he sad too?

There’s also my friend who I always think is so happy. But I pay attention to the things she says. I pay very careful attention to her dreams, and thoughts and the way she acts, and I fear there is something deeper to her that she hasn’t let anyone in on yet.

But, I can see it in her.

Like I’ve said, I’m very good at these sort of things.

And I wonder,

Is anyone thinking the same thing about me?

Guessing that, perhaps, there is something deeper to me too? I’m curious if Tadpole wonders these sort of things. He was very close Friday, but he backed away right before he broke through.

Does he know better?

Or not know enough to know better yet?