I Wanna Be With You

I’d rather be poor and happy than rich and alone.

I first heard these lyrics on September 1st, 2013. Lady Gaga was performing a new ballad called I Wanna Be With You, which would later turn into the significantly less innocent Dope, at the iTunes festival.

(Did you think this was gonna be about you?)

I was freshly 14 at the time; yet still I found the lyric a bit clichรฉ. Yes. Sure. Money can’t buy happiness. Yada yada yada. Funny coming from a multimillionaire, right? It’s not that I thought she was lying, but it was pretty unconvincing. I was glad the final song had switched the line for something more poignant (been hurting low from living high for so long).

As you can tell, since I’m making this post, it doesn’t end there. Yes, as I grew older, I started thinking about it quite a lot.

What do I want in life? I love things. Things are great. I enjoy spending money on food, on books, on useless junk from AliExpress. I love getting presents. I hate losing money. But does that make me materialistic? Those “preferences” are in no way rare – almost everyone can relate. But then again, there’s no denying the world itself is materialistic…

But what do I really want in life? In the wise words of Beyon-S Noles Female Pop Vocalist: “My aspiration in life… Is to be happy“.

Insert “you don’t say!” meme here. Yes, I know it seems obvious. But let’s think, do most of us really strive to be happy? 

Actually I’ll stop asking rhethorical questions and talk about myself a bit. I mean it’s my blog goddamit, I’m not giving a pep talk.

I want to be happy. And to accomplish that, I had to test out what works for me. Money can’t buy happiness? Who said that? This doesn’t go for everyone. I needed to find out for myself.

And indeed, it did apply to me. I will spare myself the pain of recapping the horrible experiences I had during last year’s summer job as a bartender; I’ll just focus on what came after. Yes, I made money, more money than I had ever had. I spent the following month doing whatever I fancied with it, living the “happy” life. I couldn’t deny that having money indeed made me feel better. 

But that was short lived. It ended, not even a month after I had gotten my paycheck. It ended and the fun ended with it. I wanted more money? I was gonna have to work another painful month. So is this happiness? Working until you hate yourself, then getting a few pieces of paper in return and worrying about when they would run out and you’d have to work again? 

As soon as I made that realization, I made a pact with myself: I was never going to do something I don’t enjoy for money again. It is just not worth it and the happiness it brings is conditioned by how much time I get before I’ll have to go back to doing that loathed thing. This is basically the definition of being enslaved by money. H e l l t o t h e n a h.

Some might say “well, this is life, kid”. I – ignorantly, foolishly, maybe even deludedly, call me what you wish – say no. See, my life isn’t that special: there are billions who live now, who have lived, and who will live long after I’m gone. If by any chance my refusal to submit to this horrible cycle leads to my life being a total failure, then be it; it’s not like hanging myself isn’t an option.

En bref, this is how I discovered that for me, abundant money will never be a constant source of happiness if earning that money will make me suffer emotionally. Building a fortune is just never going to do it for me. 

Am i really settling for “poor and happy” then? No. Sorry Gaga, but that’s way too black and white. Why not “middle class and content”? I’m perfectly fine with that! And that’s why I chose to major in English. I’m a bright student, and would virtually succeed in any domain I set my mind to. Those big money jobs, you know. But I just couldn’t see myself doing anything in a few decades except what I’m good at and enjoy doing, which is reading and writing. I know I have probably discarded my chances of being wealthy – and while I would like that, I don’t think I’d like it more than being satisfied with what I do for a living. I’m trusting myself on this one. 

Thank you, Gags. Thank you, Bey. Thank you, Byblos Sur Mer, you miserable fragment of hell. Thank you for showing me the way.

The Friend.

What do I want? 

Am I lying to myself when I say I don’t want relationships at the moment? I am. Because I do. I do badly, and I see opportunities everywhere. I overanalyze, I make up signs to notice, I fall in love.

… Or do I? Not anymore. I rather “lose balance and sway for a moment before regaining grip” in love. I’ve done it too many times to let myself actually fall. And I’m not wrong.

Name: Anthony. Job description: receiving screenshots from friends of conversations with crushes and love interests and helping them through their relationships. 

Time to tell the mirror what I know she’s heard before: I don’t wanna be you anymore. Be ME anymore. The sidekick. The friend. The mother hen. The couselor. 

Can’t I be the crush for once? The love interest? The cute guy you’re afraid to talk to? The person you rave to your best friend about?

When will someone talk to me because they’re interested in me r o m a n t i c a l l y and not – God, those awful three words – a s a f r i e n d? 

It’s funny but it hurts. I’m tired. I’m done. I’m way too close to turning to people who are interested but who I don’t find attractive at all. And that’s dangerous, because it breaks one of my main morals. 

I’m scared.

Guys I fucking miss Harry Potter

LIKE OH MY GOD

I JUST REALIZED HOW MUCH I MISS H๐Ÿ‘A๐Ÿ‘R๐Ÿ‘R๐Ÿ‘Y๐Ÿ‘P๐Ÿ‘O๐Ÿ‘T๐Ÿ‘T๐Ÿ‘E๐Ÿ‘R

!

I am a huge Harry Potter fan. I’ve talked about it on my blog a lot of times, notably in a few essays called Potter & Me in which I tell my discovery and experience with the series. I even made a segment of me interviewing my sister about Harry Potter two years ago (which got abandonned like most of what I start). I’d provide you with links but I doubt anyone would use them.

I always went through phases with my Potterheadness. I’d lose interest for a little while, then get hit with Potter Fever and go back to binging all the material I could lay my hands on. Rereading the books, posting quotes, joining forums, playing online RPG games (hogwartsonline was my shit), harrassing my friends until they pick the books up, entre autres.

The problem is that every time I reread the books, I would always lose the momentum on Deathly Hallows and eventually stop midway through. Thus, I’ve never read Deathly Hallows through end. I’ve read the first half like 4 times, but I can’t finish the rest e v e r y t i m e. I’ve read it in full, of course, but in French, back when I first discovered it.

Because of this, my “fever” finally calmed down to a halt since my last failed attempt, and I never thought of picking the books up since. That didn’t mean I was any less of a Potterhead, of course; I bought Cursed Child on release day (let’s not talk about that… thing, though), and I watched Fantastic Beasts as soon as it came out (now that, we can talk about any day), but I haven’t bothered to reread the actual books or rewatch the movies.

But I’m making this post now, so as you have probably guessed, I AM AFFLICTED WITH POTTER FEVER ONCE MORE!

It all started when I literally forced one of my close friends to take the first book with him on holiday. He was so adamant on not reading, to the point where he read it just so he can prove to me that he won’t like it.

Obviously, he did like it. He’s now begging me to give him the second. I wanted to make him wait as a punishment for being a stubborn in the beginning, but he texted me a picture of him downloading the second movie, and I can NOT risk him commiting the crime of watching-before-reading.

Anyway, this reminded me of how enchanted I were when I first discovered the series, and how badly I missed the wizarding world. So here I am, showing symptoms of Potter Fever once again! 

However, I do not want to repeat my old mistakes. This time around, I want to start from Deathly Hallows at once. It’s against my core beliefs, but I see no other way. Wow, I’m amazing at making silly stuff sound heroic.

My birthday was last week, and this same friend who was on holiday brought me a wAND FROM THE WIZARDING WORLD OF HARRY POTTER AT UNIVERSAL. The DUMBLEDORE one. I can’t describe how amazing it felt to hold it for the first time. Not only that, but my other amazing friend got me the HOGWARTS LIBRARY! I had been looking for them my entire life! She got me the new editions, in that pretty green case, and I melted when I opened the package. I already started rereading Tales of Beedle the Bard and the nostalgia hit me like a truck. 

God I missed Harry Potter. And I’m ready to dive back in.

Pity me, me.

Tomorrow is my 18th birthday party. 

I just caught myself hoping no one would bring me any presents so that I can pity myself later on about not having presents for my 18th birthday.

And some of y’all think I’m joking when I say I’m a psychopath.

These are the thoughts I keep.

I’m drowning in thoughts.

Typical. Why am I drowning in thoughts? 

I honestly do not have enough energy to try to find that out. Do I have to scrutinize every single thing I do? Let me be, dear self.

The thing is I’m tired of being against myself. Yes, I came here to lecture myself about how I don’t deserve to drown in thoughts because my worries are minimal. But I’m human. And I have thoughts. And I can’t stop them. Drowning might be an overstatement, but how captivating would it be had I written “I have a few thoughts”? Yep.

Thoughts about what, you might ask? A really, really mismatched array of topics. They go from brooding about the nature of my personality, to thinking about how Where Have You Been by Rihanna was my jam in 2011. I have a really good band I want to talk about but I feel like it would be too huge of an off-topic.

I don’t dislike my thoughts. I’m not particularly fond of them either. They’re just there, and I have to deal with their presence I suppose.

Enough bullshit. Why am I way too fucking good for people? Come on. I fucking love. I love so much. I put so much love out there and no one’s there to receive it. Or is it that they are so used to that love that they don’t notice it anymore? Would its absence create a void, or would it erase me from their minds?

I’ve been told I need to let people miss me so that they know my ‘worth’. What kind of friend would require of you to prove your worth? But that’s not it. I won’t fool myself and try to find excuses for what I am: a pushover. 

I am an incredibly weak person. I could spend days elaborating, but it would do me more harm than good. In short, not only do people walk all over me, but it seems I’ve been inviting them to do so with my full consent. My back is a metaphorical doormat. 

How? I let them take me for granted. No one, not a single one of my friends worries that Anthony would ever get seriously upset at them or leave. Anthony is weak, and he will always come crawling back, begging for forgiveness until he restores the status quo. Anthony hates conflict, and will claim any accusations and declare himself guilty of anything to avoid it.

I couldn’t face you, I can see that now.

I just took a look at the rest of the lyrics of the song I remembered this line from… And I am in awe.

Sometimes I push you, into the night;

To the darkest place, the only time we meet

But I wonโ€™t need to hurt; or for us to fight;

But most of the time these are the thoughts I keep

Hi guys I like Lana Del Rey

Being a bad bitch on the side might not appeal to fools like you.

Okay Lana, none of this makes sense. Why is he a fool? Because he’s not attracted to bad bitches? I don’t get it. Sidechicks don’t impress him? Good!

I probably missed the whole point. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Why do I love Lana’s music so much? Please tell me. I have no clue. It sounds like nothing else I listen to. Am I not supposed to have different genres of music I like, and multiple artists in each genre? Well I have no idea which genre Lana belongs to, and I have no interest in anyone else but her in that genre. 

Her music is known for its nostalgic feel. But what am I supposed to be nostalgic about at fucking 18?! (Okay wow, this is the first time I write “I am 18” without it being a lie. It’s kind of hard hitting for some reason.)

I honestly have no interest at all in oldies, old musicians, old films, old books, old aesthetics, old anything. Vintage means nothing to me. But Lana’s music has been called vintage many times, and I adore it. So what is the truth? 

Should I overthink music in the first place? I can’t make myself like or dislike something. I couldn’t stop myself from loving the Blurryface medley that one Youtuber did, which I discovered on an article which reported him sexually harrassing 14 year olds online. I hated his fucking guts and hated him even more for having so much talent he didn’t deserve. Out of all the sane people on earth, he had to get a great voice and an amazing sense for musical arrangements? I digress, but my point is that if I couldn’t stop myself from liking a medley by someone I wanted to hate, that meant I had no control over my taste.

So maybe I shouldn’t look for a reason for loving Lana. I just do. It’s weird, but it is what is is. Lots of critics think her fans listen to her music because they think it makes them cooler (it doesn’t), but I literally listen to it because – shocker – it sounds good. It sounds amazing. It sounds heavenly. I love heaven.

If some of you are still living under a rock, Lust For Life is her newest album released last week, and it has some of her best songs. My favorites are 13 Beaches, Cherry, Groupie Love, When The World Was At War We Kept Dancing, and Get Free; but the album is literally full of beautiful songs and you have to listen to it, simple.

Darling you can’t let everything seem so dark blue.

Celebrating Two Years of Inconsistent and Awful Posts!

Two years ago, on the night of my sixteenth birthday, I decided to be an angsty teenager. Furious, I took to my laptop and typed away at how UNFAIR it was that my sisters wouldn’t pass me the remote oN mY OwN fUcKen BiRthDaY!!1

The next day, I decided to create a place where I could share with the world these angsty thoughts, and even more of them. Thus was born the sad excuse of a blog you are currently reading.

Fast forward two years later, and… Here I am, writing an “anniversary” post, not on my birthday, not even on my blog’s birthday, but a day or two later. And this, ladies and gentleman, accurately portrays my wonderful personality traits: arrogant, lazy (okay now I’m quoting Snape), pretentious, always trying to fix what I could easily not have broken, and overall useless.

Does it matter that every time I think about this blog, I get a pang in my heart and an overwhelming feeling to come back and start taking care of it again, if I don’t put these feelings to action? No, it’s just one of my many pathetic attempts to console myself about being a failure at the most basic things. Isn’t it even more pathetic that I am sharing these thoughts with you? It’s like I’m almost pointing a gun to your heads, and whispering: “if you don’t post a nice comment about how I’m none of those things with at least three good adjectives, I will personally haunt your dreams as a guilt tripping ghost until you do. Bitch.”

No, I don’t want nice comments, or birthday comments, and I don’t know why the fuck I’m under the illusion that anyone is even gonna read this because I haven’t interacted with anyone in ages. Since I left the Blogger’s House Cup to rot in the dust, to be exact. I couldn’t even finish what I started.

I just don’t see what the hell I’m doing right now. Why am I dragging myself at 4 A.M. while listening to Ultraviolence? Am I trying to convince myself that I’m a tortured soul? Please. My life is the equivalent of cotton candy. I don’t know why I chose this atrocious metaphore. But I mean it’s a fucking piece of cake, and anyone else would’ve done much more of it. Is this trying to help me find myself or something? I don’t think it’s working. Daniel if you’re reading this like please find a better way to spend your time dude what the fuck.

Did I tell you guys? I earned a full scholarship to one of the best colleges in the country, to study English literature. How the fuck am I going to maintain my scholarship if it took me months to fucking write about it? I thought once I was done with studying the awful things of life a.k.a maths and science, I’d have time and energy to do what I want to do, to read, to write. But all I’m doing is literally NOTHING. As a punishment, I signed myself up for a Calculus III class in my first college semester as a free elective. Or was it me going to psychopathic lenghts to give myself something to complain about? Like that hasn’t happened before. Jesus Christ it’s almost funny. Don’t even feel bad for cackling internally, because I’m doing it too.
Guys, my best friend is doing Computer Engineering, but he has written a whole fucking story on Wattpad. It’s bad but like still. THAT’s how far behind I am. 

It’s also funny how I started this post thinking I would cheesily talk about how I missed writing here, how I’m finally an adult now, going off to college to explore life with a smile on my lips and a passion in my heart, but BULL FUCKING SHIT. I’m less of an adult now than I were when I started this blog. And you know what? I’m gonna hatefuck it. I’m gonna keep writing awful posts like this until all of you start hating me and I stop feeling unworthy of my 500 followers.

Good night my dearests! Lol

Weird Rampage.

It was prom night… Which was weird. We’d just had our prom last week. But that wasn’t the only weird part.

Almost everything about it was weird. The setting, the location, the people, even my friends didn’t seem normal. I mean there was a contest and I won a disco ball lamp. What on earth…

We magically moved to a garden where we watched a random performance I can’t remember. After that, we were supposed to go to the after-prom; for some reason I found myself at a “friends’ house” – which was a building. I’d never been there before, I wasn’t even friends with that person, but somehow I had an idea where that house was located. Okay…

So my friends and I were sitting in the garden, doing nothing noteworthy. Suddenly a gang of gang-looking men arrived and went up to the appartment. One of my friends, Z, desperately wanted to go with them. Was she drunk, were we all drunk? I just remember smiling and nodding at her.

A few minutes later, E followed, and one by one all of my friends did the same. What was weird, the guy whose place we were supposed to be at wasn’t even there at any time. I remained alone in the garden. I tried glancing into the building, but all I saw was a naked man sleeping on the ground floor, so I backed off.

I decided it was time I called my father to come pick me up. For some reason, he sounded quite angry at me, which couldn’t be because of the time because it was barely 1 or 2 in the morning and he’d picked me up at 5 the previous week. I don’t remember how the conversation heated up but I accidentally hung up on him and he didn’t call back to ask for directions to come pick me up. I started worrying. I remember hearing my mom throw in the phrase ‘What’s happening? Did you all really kill that boy?’ I had no idea what she was talking about at all, and figured she’d seen some random news about a gruesome murder and instantly linked it to us, because that’s what moms do.

I went into the building, and entered one of the appartments as if I owned them all. There I saw someone I can’t remember. A while after, a boy and a girl came by, looking like they were at work, carrying grocery bags. I remember the boy coming at me, and me running away…

Next thing I know, it’s morning and I’m standing in the driveway to my house. How did I get here? I had no idea. But I saw my dad’s car wasn’t there, so I figured he still was there trying to pick me up. For some reason I convinced myself I had to go back to that building so that my dad can pick me up and bring me back home – you know, where I already was. I figured I’d try flying, but it didn’t work. I closed my eyes and tried to teleport there, still didn’t work. 

Out of the blue, my English teacher appeared in her car, with the two teenagers from yesterday night. I got in and she gave me a ride to the place. During the ride, we had a relatively sane conversation. She asked me about college and I told her about the full scholarship I’d earned yesterday. Just normal banter, and I payed no mind to the two strangers from yesterday night.

So I arrived at the building. My parents were there. A whole crowd of people as well. Reporters. Law enforcement. As soon as I got there, they all stopped talking then ran at me. The reporters were hurling question after question. The police were seizing me. My mom was crying, and showing me an online article: “teenager breaks in, murders two infant boys”. What did that have to do with me?!

Then they showed me a video. It was me. I was standing above a crib, looking completely unconscious, smiling like I’ve never seen myself smile before, babytalking two newborns in their cribs. Slowly, my hands locked around their throats and started choking them. 

I could not believe what was happening. WHEN did that happen? HOW did that happen? I specifically remember not having anything to drink during prom, or after. Was there a chance I got caught and was drugged after I tried running away? That would explain my attempts to fly… But how the hell did I get home then? Nothing made sense.

Only one thing did. It was that concrete, incriminating proof was already out in the world and that I had no control over it. That was going to ruin my life forever. I immediately thought of my newly earned scholarship that I would have to wave goodbye to…

And that was enough to finally wake me up.