I wanted to have one of those pretentious journals that's written all in lower case, that's so deep that it looks kind of shallow. Or maybe the other way around. But that's not me. This journal would wear its heart on its sleeve if it had either, which it doesn't. I'm pretentious in my own way.
So...me. I'm a sophomore at a crappy Los Angeles public school, where, despite my perfectionist tendencies and constant level of stress (generally exposited through an unimpressive command of Yiddish), I remain a profound underachiever clinging to unrealistic aspirations of success and all that good stuff. I have no self-confidence in myself whatsoever, and yet am the proud owner of an insanely large ego, and no, I'm not really sure how that works either.
I like inside jokes, shiny objects, and switching from gleeful immaturity to unamused blandness on a dime. I don't like deep philosophical conversations. I adore hypocrisy. I make pretty things in Photoshop, and compose various articles of writing that end up satirical more often than I would like. I despise poetry, but I write it anyhow. I have a newfound and somewhat unexplained love for (most) all things political, and reading the newspaper; this is most probably my parents' fault. I'm the kind of grammar whore who actually enjoys using semi-colons, except for when I don't care, or when I use chatspeak in what I pretend is a mocking fashion. I enjoy arguing, but whenever I debate anything I become convinced that the other person is most probably right. My friends tell me that I sound like uncomfortable whenever I curse, which is more often than I might care to admit, except for when it is less.
Too self-conscious to be cool and too cheerful to be emo, with an awesome SAT vocabulary, and a rebellious streak a mile centimeter long.