chatter.

Frustrated. Insatiated. Infatuated. Underrated. Relegated.

Complicated.

If I could name myself after a song, I would henceforth be known as "Chelsea Dagger."

I hate talking on the phone. I think maybe I always have, but I will blame it on Cassidy, who over the past two years has cemented my addiction to texting.

Always, without fail, I must have some anchor of eccentricity in my life. At least one wide-eyed, blog-writing insomniac who says things like "meh" and "bleh" a lot. Such friendships nurture the Emily Dickinson in me. But I think if I am left to my own devices long enough, my worst nightmare (wildest dream?) of becoming a crazy cat lady will be reality.

So the daydreaming types are complemented nicely by the ones who relish the benefits of a full eight hours of sleep, who seem to have their heads a bit more firmly affixed between their shoulders. They may cast a longing glance or two at the uncertain and potentially dangerous, but barely stray from the tightrope.

In my brief life, I have been a little of both.

What is my point?

I don't know. I just felt like writing something. Sometimes it feels good to write and never really make a point. Especially when I go back later and realize I'm not as crazy as I thought I sounded.

Not that crazy is always bad.