who's gonna be the boy to take me on? I've been waiting far too long. why can't he find me and know I'm one of the best things out there?

last night after the concert, at the bar, I couldn't help but feel better than everyone in there. sometimes it takes a gaggle of yuppies to reaffirm my confidence in myself. it's kind of pathetic the way they parade themselves around, with their perfectly coiffed WASP hair, their Prada bags, and tastefully bland, tight clothes. like this one girl I see on the bus all the time: she could be a clothes model for J. Crew or something, and I've always wondered about her and what her life was like. she was there last night, smoking clove cigarettes like it was some exotic passtime, flipping her blonde hair, and floating around the bar with her lithe little frame. I mean, what kind of lives are these people shooting for? staid conformity? it's so bizarre. the whole job-in-advertising-engaged-by-25-labrador-move-from-the-one-bedroom-by-the-park-to-the-comfy-suburb lifestyle both fascinates and repells me. why not go for some emotional depth instead? I suppose I shouldn't say that; even people who seem shallow on the exterior may have a mature emotional intelligence, but it doesn't seem apparent to me when I look at them. I mean, do they even see what they look like when they make stupid jokes or take a drink from their Bud Lite? I'm kind of obsessed with examining them.

anyway. it's getting late. halfway through 100 Years Of Solitude. read into that what you will.