Being nice

People said I was nice last night. Something of a revelation I feel.

I’m not used to being nice. People generally look on me as nasty. And, as a general rule, I agree with them. I am. God knows I try hard enough to be.

And yet, why is it good, then, that they called me nice? It makes no sense, and yet it made me happy. I don’t get this. I’m not even sure I like it.

So two of my friends, Steve and Rachel have broken up. This is not nessecerily (is that how you spell it? No, but who cares. This is my diary and I’ll be illiterate if I choose) a good thing. I predicted they’d break up before Christmas, but I didn’t think it’d be this soon. Rachel was in a hell of a state. Crying her eyes out and getting VERY drunk, but Steve, (who admittedly is an extremely logical person) seemed almost blase about the whole thing. Perhaps to him it really is as simple as a maths problem.

I don’t get how he can live like that. No ever experiencing that kind of emotion. He’s never angry. Never upset, he just exists. I need anger, it keeps my fires burning. Keeps me sharp. He doesn’t which I suppose may the way to go. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.

Must think…..

ramblerambleramble

The boiling man