I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night

I've been thinking a lot about the fine line between pretentiousness and the amount of self-confidence and self-indulgence that's healthy and allowed. I've always been critical of myself. I called it realistic, but in retrospect, I was more critical than I needed to be. After talking to a certain friend who's convinced that he's become an asshole, I started thinking about it. There are about a million issues that we all have hanging in our minds, vaguely, ideas that we don't even think in words but are conscious of, and I'm starting to bring this one forward.

For example, I don't really like sleeping in pijamas. I sleep in flannel shirts, slips, Harry's shirts, concert tee-shirts--whatever. I realized at one point that I have enough t-shirts that I like that I shouldn't ever have to wear ones that I don't like, even to bed. Anyway, I feel like this is a way of flattering myself, taking pride in myself, even though no one's looking, feeling good about myself all the time. But if I were to hear about someone else sleeping in silk slips and their boyfriend's shirts, I'd feel a little irritated. I'd probably think it was obnoxious or something. Why? Because I assume that everyone but me is confident? Because I'd think they thought they were cooler than me because they did that? I don't even know. But I realize that I do things sometimes that piss me off when other people do them--not mean things, not things that you can even really put your finger on. But I do them.

At the same time, I think that my irritation, or whatever it is, with these girls who try to be trendy, and wear heavy eye makeup, and act like they think they're hot shit--I think my irritation stems from a sense that I'm not like them, and that they're accusing me in some way of inferiority or of being insincere or something.

I know I'm sincere. I know they're not any cooler than me because they do some thing--God knows what--that rubs me the wrong way, even if I do it myself.

The thing is, despite having no idea what anyone thinks of me, except Elena, who hates me because I'm busy on the weekends, I'm feeling generally satisfied. I guess they're like bruises--you're fine and healthy and all until someone touches them.

Besides, I think a lot of other people think this way, too.
So I'm only mildly fucked up.

Oh, and I realized that people still read this the other day when I checked my statcounter. People even read the crappy poetry blog (email me if you want the url, I'll be happy to give it to you), and the "stuff I want you to read" blog. (Read it. It's good. I promise.) This makes me happy and feel like a generally slightly more interesting person. I don't know why it has this effect, because the content of my blog hasn't changed, and it's not all that fascinating even to me, and I'm living it, but... yeah.

Recap: today I bought a lamp for my sister for $4, returned my bike basket at Bikes by George on 12th st, finished a book during the PSAT lecture, bought color film (madness!), wore mascara, striped tights and a hat and felt strange, played the harmonica and generally had a good day.