An Emo Note to Self
Fucking Myspace. Can't access my blog. Who cares.
Note to self:
The shitstorm gets thicker and yet here you are, standing in the middle of it, fending people off and then wondering why you're alone. HELLO!! You're an overweight, suicidal, non-potential reaching insomniac alcoholic with an oven too small to fit your fat fucking head into! Your knives are too dull! Your balcony not high enough! You can't afford pills! You don't like pain! And yet here you are, throwing a pathetic pity party of one, in all your toxic, violent glory, trying to figure out how to get out of this bitchhole, and quick. What are you running away from NOW? The list goes on and on! An ever-widening ass that may some day block out the SUN; a dwindling bank account that does everything in its' power to smite you; loneliness that promises to crush you; friends on hiatus, boyfriend lives nowhere near you, family far away; you have a life that threatens to crumble into the sea, and all you can do with what's leftover is waste it. You are spectacularly low; it's almost breathtaking! Like watching circus freaks mate or someone shot in the head in slow-motion! You can't even use "I" statements! Great, this is probably the demise you so righteously deserve. You'll only speak about yourself in third person from now on. You'll wear a helmet on the bus. You'll go home and live with your parents, a diapered adult with one friend who has no arms and a speech impediment. Nice life. Nice note.
Okay, this is funny. No, really, it's totally funny; I can be accountable for feeling like shit. It's MY SHIT. I GOT MYSELF HERE. It's just, my solutions aren't so healthy. So it's kindof amusing and laughable and super dorky, ha ha ha. Except I'm trying unsuccessfully not to cry, and wondering what the point of it all is, and wishing there was an easier way out--and I'm laughing, because I've been here before. Ah, magnified depression, emotional suicide!...who would I be without you? What do I need so-called "friends" for, or a "boyfriend", or a distant "family" when I have you to wrap my cellulite-riddled arms around? This is my battle cry! I don't need any of you! I can jump on my own and hopefully I'll have a heart attack on the way down! ( because seriously, that 'breaking all the bones in your body upon impact but still living' scares the shit out of me) Today, I am a broken piece-o-meat. Battered and bloodied from my nightmares last night. Diving deep to reach new emotional lows. Super sensitive and alone and crazy. What can you do? Nothing. You don't get to do anything. You just get to watch, you get to cringe and cry out, you get to tentatively reach out only to be pushed away, you get to journal about it or gossip about it to your co-worker, you get to make The End into your own personal masterpiece, just like me!!! You're lucky. You get to ignore me. You get to hate me. You get to forget about me. I'm way ahead of you.
Note to self:
The shitstorm gets thicker and yet here you are, standing in the middle of it, fending people off and then wondering why you're alone. HELLO!! You're an overweight, suicidal, non-potential reaching insomniac alcoholic with an oven too small to fit your fat fucking head into! Your knives are too dull! Your balcony not high enough! You can't afford pills! You don't like pain! And yet here you are, throwing a pathetic pity party of one, in all your toxic, violent glory, trying to figure out how to get out of this bitchhole, and quick. What are you running away from NOW? The list goes on and on! An ever-widening ass that may some day block out the SUN; a dwindling bank account that does everything in its' power to smite you; loneliness that promises to crush you; friends on hiatus, boyfriend lives nowhere near you, family far away; you have a life that threatens to crumble into the sea, and all you can do with what's leftover is waste it. You are spectacularly low; it's almost breathtaking! Like watching circus freaks mate or someone shot in the head in slow-motion! You can't even use "I" statements! Great, this is probably the demise you so righteously deserve. You'll only speak about yourself in third person from now on. You'll wear a helmet on the bus. You'll go home and live with your parents, a diapered adult with one friend who has no arms and a speech impediment. Nice life. Nice note.
Okay, this is funny. No, really, it's totally funny; I can be accountable for feeling like shit. It's MY SHIT. I GOT MYSELF HERE. It's just, my solutions aren't so healthy. So it's kindof amusing and laughable and super dorky, ha ha ha. Except I'm trying unsuccessfully not to cry, and wondering what the point of it all is, and wishing there was an easier way out--and I'm laughing, because I've been here before. Ah, magnified depression, emotional suicide!...who would I be without you? What do I need so-called "friends" for, or a "boyfriend", or a distant "family" when I have you to wrap my cellulite-riddled arms around? This is my battle cry! I don't need any of you! I can jump on my own and hopefully I'll have a heart attack on the way down! ( because seriously, that 'breaking all the bones in your body upon impact but still living' scares the shit out of me) Today, I am a broken piece-o-meat. Battered and bloodied from my nightmares last night. Diving deep to reach new emotional lows. Super sensitive and alone and crazy. What can you do? Nothing. You don't get to do anything. You just get to watch, you get to cringe and cry out, you get to tentatively reach out only to be pushed away, you get to journal about it or gossip about it to your co-worker, you get to make The End into your own personal masterpiece, just like me!!! You're lucky. You get to ignore me. You get to hate me. You get to forget about me. I'm way ahead of you.