my thoughts are stars i can't fathom into constellations

I have just finished reading the fault in our stars. And I found- (I'm going to make an exception to my no names rule because my dear friend Peter is very difficult to describe in terms other than Peter)- that Peter has also written about The Fault in Our Stars, but I have not read his post yet in the interest of keeping my entry as base as possible.
Anyway, I cried the entire time, completely silently, as I have taken up habitation, this week, in a hotel room in Washington, D.C., with my two parents- one of whom sleeps very very lightly.
This sort of literary feat makes me wish very deeply to be a better writer. More than that, though, this novel makes me wish very deeply to be in love. Perhaps more importantly, to be loved.
A quick side note- crying, I have just found, makes one almost unrecognizably unattractive. I was almost surprised by my own appearance. Additionally, there is a large and vaguely urinary wet spot on the sheet where my face was, and i do not want to sleep on it, however, the bed is so small it prohibits any alternatives.
Anyways, the entire book was crushingly sad, and crushingly good. It left me with many thoughts, and the often fleeting nature of my thoughts led me to open my computer and connect to the 12.95 a day ethernet in our hotel room.
The first thought- probably not the first thought I had reading the book, nor even the largest or most important thought I had, just the first that comes to mind- is the thought of how incredibly crushed my parents would be if I died. This is a tangent. Once, I had a cousin. His name was Alex. He live somewhere in the midnorthwest, not Michigan but somewhere near there. At the time, I was eight, I think, and he was 17. Anyway, he died in a car accident. And it was just this unspeakable tragedy in our family. I haven't thought about him in years but recently, I think about him often.
I do remember him, somewhat, though not in the same way as I remember my still-amongst-the-living cousins that I see once every two years. The thing, though, I do remember most, was his death. And I think that a lot of people, particularly those who die young, are completely overshadowed by their death. And I know this is true in my own memory of my cousin. Because for every moment I have of him in the recesses of my mind, I have a fistful of memories of his death. Because you never really know, do you, that the last time you see someone will be the last? So I guess those days I had never stood out, in stark relief, as the days after his death did for me.
You'll have to forgive the long and rambling nature of this post, I do not care to edit it at this time.
What I remember, though, is being completely unable to shed a single tear over his loss. Later, I would. But at the funeral, I recall thinking that I was the only person not crying in the entire room. I also recall, vaguely, the loads of bullshitty eulogies (though i didn't know the word at the time) being read by his classmates, and wondering, really, though, how many of these people actually knew him? I know they're sad, but I feel more that they are sad, not because Alex is dead, but because they recognize that they too will die. That life is incredibly uncertain, and each moment brings us closer to the inevitability of it all. At least, that is what I sometimes feel when I think about death.
But anyway, there was a point to this, some six or seven paragraphs ago. And the point was, that, I feel like the true sadness in someone's death is the way it affects those still among the living- including myself. I remember how utterly destroyed his two parents were. I remember wondering how they would live with themselves, cliched as it is, how they would go on from now. Because a parent never expects to lose a child. And of course, rather than simply reflecting on that, as a non-sociopathic-tendency-displaying person would, I HAD to relate it to myself. I could only truly see the sadness of their loss by imagining my own parents, if, (and here my mother would cross herself, like the catholic girl of her youth), I were to be killed in an alarming car accident coming back from a party?
And I don't know. But I can imagine well enough to hope completely unselfishly, (no really) that when I die, they will already be gone. So that they don't have to go through that, I guess.
At this point I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about but I'm sure I sound quite insane and not at all interesting. So I'm sorry.
As for the second thing... I know, you're bored.
As for the second thing, I very much wish to be in love. Like, right now. I want to be in love with someone, and I want to be loved back. But things rarely happen like they do in books.
Hilariously, depressingly, I can count the number of people who have liked me on one hand. With an amputated thumb. Let me list them. Also, pre-grade school does not count.
1) The Boy. The one and only boyfriend. Who, I must say, I never really liked back. I've been told that there was a time, years ago, where he really did like me. Like, like like me. And looking back, I believe it. My only regret is that I did not seize the few good moments we had together.
2) Some Boy. A boy at summer camp. Not the Peter, but another boy. Who was a bit strange and had large calves and was overly serious and is still a touch pretentious. I did not ever like him back either. I must say, though, that when I learned of his attractive, smart, and Indian girlfriend, I felt just a twinge of jealousy. Because (and I have never gotten a girl to admit this, perhaps because all my friends are more popular and more often liked than I) it is flattering to be liked, no matter who the liker (what?) is.
3) Recently, a creepy emo senior boy who rides my bus. He is creepy. Needless to say, I do not like him back. Just a few days ago, he was chatting with a boy in my grade who I imagine will one day grow up to be a school shooter somewhere hopefully-not-here. (It's important to note that boy number one has since turned emo, and I am glad I jumped ship before that.) Anyway, school shooter boy is creepily best friends with The Boy, school shooter boy was discussing with emo senior boy MY love life, as I sat there a few rows ahead, surreptitiously pretending to listen to my ipod. And he was explaining the nature of The Boy and I's relationship, incorrectly, might I add. (I shudder to imagine The Boy describing his imagined conquests of a carnal nature to schools shooter boy.) Inevitably, I interjected something I hope sounded appropriately witty and lackadaisal and not at all bitter. So then, emo boy and I discussed that for a while, and I emphasized how completely stupid, and juvenile, and non-existent The Boy and I's relationship was, when out of the blue, emo boy goes, 'so, do you have a boyfriend now?' and in my head i'm like, 'YES! SAY YES!' and suddenly I stammer out, 'well, i'm currently in a long distance relationship.' and in my head i'm like, 'WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? YOU ARE TOTALLY NOT.' and then i briefly described my fake long distance relationship and realized that this fabricated boy sounded, an awful lot like the Peter. And then I was like, 'YOU PSYCHO.' but not out loud, because that would be super duper weird.
And then I started actually listening to my ipod and completely ignoring creepy emo boy. The end! Sorry for being creepy and creepily pretending I am in a relationship with you even though that totally isn't a thing. I think. Unless, you know, I have been completely misunderstanding everything. But I don't think that... is so. What?
Um, okay, goodnight.
Hey! I just read the Peter. And, I feel, first of all, much better that he has a creepy idea of a fake relationship with me also, because that helps me feel less creepy and less like I just want to go back and delete the entire last couple of paragraphs. Which I try to resist doing, by the way, because someday this will be a memoir and candor is important.
I also noted that he got all fancy and edited, which made me feel very lazy.
But secondly,(thirdly) and more importantly, ' I imagine that if I do get to go to tip this year, which I might not, then I'd hang out with Frances more, and then be disappointed. Cause i can be nothing but disappointed. all of her I get to know is the good. anything that she reveals to me and nothing more. even if she's trying to show me every bit of her, it just can't happen.' and I feel like that just about sums everything up. That I have been thinking about. Which is sad. But true. And I have been trying. But it's true. That it can't happen.
I also feel that this post is entirely too long. And I feel a little bad for exploiting my dead cousin as a vehicle for my own emotions as though I really knew him. And I didn't because I was eight years old. What I know is an idea of him. My memories of him are more my feelings than anything else. So, I'm sorry that you are able to concisely express yourself in just a few paragraphs while I write pages and still am unable to express myself without a quote from someone else. You, in this case.
I also feel that the titles, while eyecatching, are completely pretentious and also not at all representative of the following paragraphs. However, I will continue using them, because, frankly, I think they make me sound better. Though I'm sure I will be dissuaded of that notion the next time we speak.
ANYWAY, one more thing. I have been avoiding speaking to a specific person, but I have finally confronted the reality that I have but one faithful reader. Which, hey, is better than none.
ACTUALLY ANYWAY, goodnight. I am sorry for the non sequiter-ness of this post.