If you trust your neighbors, they'd never suspect what you're like.

Listening To: Your Friends Are Gone by Circa Survive
Feeling: Like playing a children's card game.

"...Everything hidden is suddenly exposed
Nobody wants to hear another
Story about how you couldn't write right
It climbs in slowly behind
No one has to know
Playback, delete, and rewind
Each one is louder than the one before
And the people you care for
At ten times the expense
Of all that you've spent..."

I've decided that I might try to post a little Letters thing every week on Saturday, which will basically just be me ranting about the things that have bothered me all week. I've always wanted to sort of do a weekly thing like that, and I also wanted to do a rant-like thing. I've seen other bloggers do things like that, so I thought I might as well do it, too, and try to keep up with it. So, enjoy my rant, I suppose? I usually don't get comments, so I really don't know if I'm being boring or exciting. We'll just have to see.

Oh, at the end, I guess I'll post something good that made me happy this week.

5/29/10, Letters no.1
Dear Sun,
Sun, if you could not scorch me everytime I walk outdoors, that would be nice. Yes, I know I tan easily and rarely burn. Yes, I know I am a ghastly pale. I like it this way, and if you could stop trying to tan the crap out of me everytime I step outside for 5.6 seconds because you know it'll be another two weeks before something forces me back into the "great" *air quotes* outdoors, that would be excellent.

Dear Novel I'm Currently Writing,
I would really love if you could be easier to write. I have -- basically -- the whole plot floating around in my mind and on random bits of paper and in notebooks, but nevertheless, I am never confident while I'm writing you. I worry that the story is moving too fast, I'm not describing things well, the characters aren't three-dimensional enough, that there's too many characters in general, etc. Basically, I have no faith in myself or any scraps of skills I may have at this point. I am in a constant state of worry because of this, so yeah.

Dear Non-Existant Confidence,
It would be just superb if you, Confidence, would show up and take over once in awhile. I don't need to be over-confident, but it would be nice to feel good about the novel or myself for once. News flash for everyone involved: guys don't find self-conscious girls cute. Not that I'm even thinking about going after a guy, or that I even like a certain one (At this point, I don't), but still. You know. I should be ready when it happens, right?

Dear Art Skills,
I know I'm asking for a lot here, but can I please be able to draw hands? And arms? And legs? And feet?
...
And realism?
I just rocked the boat, didn't I?

Dear Gracie's hair,
I know you're my dog's hair and all and you probably have an ego just like she does, but you tangle so much. I have to brush you all the time, and I'm getting sick of it. Can't you stay untangled for at least a day?
It's so much easier with the pugs' short hair. Their grooming needs are practically non-existant.

And finally, the happy thing. It's optional to read, of course, like everything else.

Dear God,
Thanks for always being there for me, through the tears, the doubts, the rants, the confusion, the fear. You know I'm always a constant jumble of nerves and fear, and that I'm constantly on the cusp of letting them consume me. Still, there's always a line to cross before I get that far, and Your hands on my shoulders gently pull me away before I reach that line.
I love You. Even if I can't be honest with myself, I can be honest with You.
Thanks for everything, Father.