nouveau fiction for the recent 20-something

in response to getting my head spun on wednesday night, i did some thinking.

i prefer to stay illusioned, i've decided.

i'm officially breaking up with 'delusion snores, sleep with reality.'

reality falls asleep as soon as he gets off, see. and then i go home and sit on the edge of my bed wondering what the hell is wrong with me. i let my guard down long enough to be violently reminded of why that guard was set up in the first place. that's what gets me down, most of the time. the shattering of those carefully cut windows.

anyway, sometimes when it gets really bad, i think to myself, 'stop pretending. you're never going to be [insert adjective such as beautiful, desirable, or cool here].'

somehow, (and fortunately) my head stubbornly insists that i am, indeed, all of those things and more.

of course, my stubborn head also insists that "no, really, bon jovi is good," and also that my parents used to drive a green cadillac, a fact which my mother vehemently denies. but i remember sitting bitch, sunburned and windblown with an ice cream cone, on the green leather seat of that green caddy.

so sometimes i decide, HEY. STOP KIDDING YOURSELF. and then i decide, if you didn't make these things up in your head, you wouldn't get disappointed when they turn out to be false everywhere else. but self improvement is a waste of time unless its concentrated solely within, as a means to better self. you know, as opposed to making self look better in order to impress other people. and since i've yet to master useful self improvement (i fight with myself daily over whether or not its possible to change in any way not superficial), i think i'm just gonna sit here with my thighs sticking to the seat.

you know, living on a prayer.