My mom's addicted to ambien.

Sometimes I think I act like some kind of.. pseudo-psychologist-know-it-all deeper than the ocean-star-crossed lover-big picture thinker-creative soul- kitchen sink astrologer- with daddy issues- who overstays her welcome. I'm insecure and i'm naive, and I give it all away upfront. I talk during movies and know endless amounts of useless trivia. In short, I am annoying. I am that sappy eyed puppy child that follows all the cool kids around.
I wonder whether or not I will see you again.  Whether or not fate is fate and love is love. Because I am curious and intrigued to a point of being overtaken. By what though. Something powerful yet pathetically ordinary. Something that opens the door to nostalgic oblivion deep inside my brain. But I am afraid.
I remember a great poet once told me.. that writing? Writing is about being honest. Honesty. Honestly? As simple as words. As simple as yes and no. Please and thank you. Your and you're. I hate you, I love you. As simple ad this paper and pen. I don't know what I am trying to say.
I just want to know if I am special. So that I can get a good nights sleep and say yes to the monster inside mr that yearns to be heard. Threatens to destroy. And only comes out at 3:27. am. I want to know because the unknown hurts more than the truth. I wonder if i'll ever sleep.