Eighteenth

[This was written July 10th, posted now.]

I am too much. I'm just too many things, honestly. I'm too unhappy. Too pessimistic. Too cynical. Too sarcastic. Too many contradictions. Too boring. Too weird. Too off beat. Too quiet, until I get too loud. Too mean. Too nice. Too shameless. Too self conscious, even if it's generally a secret. Too big. Too interested. Too intense. Too introverted. Too geeky. Too dumb.

I'm too much stuff, and it doesn't matter how large of small I am, I don't feel like I have room for it all inside me sometimes.

I'm too young. I'm nineteen.

I'm too old, coming up on twenty in mere days.

I'm too afraid. I have when things change.

I'm too bored. I can't stand for everything to always be the same.

I'm too structured. I over-rationalize taking a risk when it's offered to me.

I'm too flippant. I'll do things for no reason, other than an impulse.

I'm too cynical. I think this country has warped love out of recognition, and after 20 years of single I am unconvinced there is ever going to be takers.

I'm too much of a romantic. I have these views, but I want love anyways. Love like a song, simple and beautiful. And a good man to share it with.

I'm too young, getting too old. Standing too still, but it changes too fast. There's too many people, but I'm too alone. I'm relying too much on my' too much' self. But I'm not sure of how to change it for anything to happen. And I'm so incredibly sick of wearing pants.