sometimes, the hardest part about making up with a friend after a fight can be what he tells you about yourself that you don’t want to believe — complimentary things, i mean.

i wish i could believe that i’m somehow as cool, in ways that transcend the shallowly physical, as my friends make me feel sometimes. eamon, i’ll love you forever and without reservation for what you said on friday about how i looked. but the thing is that i still feel unworthy and that i’ll never get what i want, even if what i want is just another ordinary, shallow human with funny hair and silly pretensions like me.

oooh, waxing emo again. gotta stop that. okay: in the sheerly silly blogger form, i bought three CDs today! yay me! the magnetic fields, the charm of the highway strip; frank black and the catholics, pistolero; and public enemy, muse sick-n-hour mess age. special thanks to dgc for getting me hooked on the magnetic fields, which is whom i’m listening to right now as i write this. because i’m not sure, in all frankness, i would have lived my life as happily or completely without owning “i don’t believe you” (off i). which, incidentally, hearkens back to the original topic of this entry. it might sound awful, like i’m incapable of believing in myself, but it’s also kinda true.

i don’t believe you.