little miss serious

I'm usually very good with lists...I love coming up with them, following them, checking items off. My most favourite kind of list are the ones about things that I love, things that bring me joy.

Coming up with them is a hoot, because I get to think about all the things that bring a smile on my face...a rather navel-gazing exercise; but one that makes me happy nonetheless. But I'm starting to think that these lists...are inevitably fleeting in the long run.

The other night, my mom told me that it's hard for her to joke around with me. She compared me to a teacher (I'm sorry to all my teacher/soon to be teacher friends) and said that I'm very...serious. I frankly can't blame her...whenever I'm out with her, I don't tend to be particularly cheery, and I'm usually kinda quiet. And actually, on the night that she told me this, I was really trying very hard to hold back tears. So...I would say she hit it on the ball. I wouldn't want to hang out with me either.

I can usually put on a good face with friends - I'll talk about not too personal things and get away with being at least slightly fun due to my dark humour and ability to rant/rave about city life and pop culture. but when I'm with my mom...I suppose I feel like I can just be me: boring little me who wears sadness like a badge of honour. And gosh! My mom is right...I AM a drag...and I'm getting tired of that too. (Unrelated sidenote: Damien Rice is playing on my itunes as I'm writing this...just happened to pop up on my shuffle...how appropriate)

What I'm saying is...I don't want to rely on those lists to make me happy anymore. I want to feel genuine joy...I want to be able to cry, because I've just been unable to even do that...to express the darkness within. I want to come home, God.