Happy Christmas? I think not.
So, I just cried. Of course.
I realized that I'm so fucking full of potential and I'm just sitting around wasting it. I'm actually really scared that I'm never going to achieve anything, that I'm not any good at writing.
I got some stuff for Christmas, four books, two dvds, no cds. Some clothes and jewelry. And pjs. I needed the clothes, but I don't really wear jewelry.
The pjs as victoria's secret and white and pink. I look awkward in white and I hate pink. My mother gives me stuff I ask for and stuff I'll never want. She wants me to be someone else, to stop reading Vonnegut and Salinger. To stop being insane.
I just want out of here. That's what I really want for Christmas. I'm pretty much over Ron, somehow. Now all I want are books, movies, and a place of my own. I would even stay in Richmond, as long as I wasn't living with my parents. They're so... normal and dumb and I hate it.
I would much rather discuss the hilarity of having to read Macbeth over break than who won the board game they played while I was sleeping.
I want to be in control of my diet, to not eat when I don't want to. I don't want to play phase 10 for two hours with my mom's family. I want to read and write and talk about something that actually fucking matters.
Like how scary I think it would be to have been Mary. And how horrible it is that Christ wasn't even born in December. And how the church seems to have sold out the "birth" of their/our Savior.
I'm lonely. Sickier than ever. Irritable. and I really don't know what to do with myself. I don't feel like myself in these pink pjs and I don't want to go back downstairs where it's awkward and forced. I can barely concentrate on Macbeth and his murderous deeds. I only see where my life is probably going in the movie Winter Passing and I'm afraid I'll see myself in the Virgin Suicides.
Not even music is fitting my mood. I feel so out of sorts and it's selfish of me to avoid everyone because I'm upset. It's Christmas. What's wrong with me? I'm supposed to be happy.