(no subject)
You know....I hate myself for being this way.
I hate myself for being so attached.
For thinking that people can be infallible.
For thinking that everyone gets through everything, and that's all that matters.
I hate myself for caring this fucking much.
And yet, there's so much more I want to say.
I hate myself for even typing this out.....over something so stupid.
Someone will read this and call me ignorant, call me superficial, call me whatever the fuck they want for feeling like this over something so trivial.
But they don't know that I seem to owe my very existence to the written word, and that when someone like her can come and just suck me up into a world, there can be no escape for me. But that's the way I like it.
Don't say I'm out of touch with this rampant chaos, your reality.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge:
The nightmare I've built my own world to escape.
Or well, the world I borrow from time to time.
To those who are not half as obsessed as I am about the new HP book, I don't want to hear a fucking word. To those who have at least some inkling to what I am referring to, I have finished the book as of 4 pm today. Hit my cell phone if you need to talk. Lord knows that I was very lucky to be alone and wanted very much to just curl up and cry, which I pretty much did.
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*
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God, why do I have to take things like this so.....not so much personally, or even badly, but...maybe somewhere in between. Why do I care so much?
I hate myself. Maybe we should just leave it at that.
I hate myself for being so attached.
For thinking that people can be infallible.
For thinking that everyone gets through everything, and that's all that matters.
I hate myself for caring this fucking much.
And yet, there's so much more I want to say.
I hate myself for even typing this out.....over something so stupid.
Someone will read this and call me ignorant, call me superficial, call me whatever the fuck they want for feeling like this over something so trivial.
But they don't know that I seem to owe my very existence to the written word, and that when someone like her can come and just suck me up into a world, there can be no escape for me. But that's the way I like it.
Don't say I'm out of touch with this rampant chaos, your reality.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge:
The nightmare I've built my own world to escape.
Or well, the world I borrow from time to time.
To those who are not half as obsessed as I am about the new HP book, I don't want to hear a fucking word. To those who have at least some inkling to what I am referring to, I have finished the book as of 4 pm today. Hit my cell phone if you need to talk. Lord knows that I was very lucky to be alone and wanted very much to just curl up and cry, which I pretty much did.
*
*
*
God, why do I have to take things like this so.....not so much personally, or even badly, but...maybe somewhere in between. Why do I care so much?
I hate myself. Maybe we should just leave it at that.