(no subject)
my mother just slid this under the door.
i hate myself.
edit edit edit: i should have told you the context behind this post. and, hey, if i can override my selfishness for a few weeks, this is the last journal entry that will ever mention me, so i might as well keep it up with the 'i's for today. we're a writing communtiy and we've found livejournal because we like writing or we think we express ourselves well with words, maybe even better than we do in speech or action, but something that i've realized in the past few days is that writing is a part of myself that i want to burn out, along with thinking and working out math problems and rewriting my spanish homework for neatness and trying to make jokes and everything else that just acts as a tacky embellishment or coating* for the thing that i really am, the one that chews and spits and sneezes and smells and fails every physical test ever put to varsity athletes, because once i do it, i will be more honest to myself and to you than i have ever been before, and at least you will be able to make the informed decision of staying away from me because you will know exactly who i am from my own mouth and not because i will first draw you birthday cards or pass notes to you in class or crack a joke over aim with you or follow you like a lovesick acolyte and then make you find out on your own that you have acquired the kind of gigapet that turns cranky and unresponsive and forgets to call you and won't make plans anymore and doesn't leave comments on your journal or email you or try to brighten your day anymore or write your family thank you cards for letting you drop in on sabbath dinner even though you did not contribute anything to the table, whether conversation or eye candy. if there is a lump in my throat over what my mother wrote, then, it is a happy one, because this is the best advice that i can ever remember her giving me. if you have read this far, i am sorry for any gloom that i may or may not have cast over your friends' page, but i am also relieved that it is finally coming out now: this is how i have always seen my place in the world, and this is the only way in which i can ever picture myself seeing my place in the world for the rest of my life. if i could just burn myself and my sense of self out of my life, i suspect that everything would be better for you and for me. rachel is a social security number and a collection of atrophying organs that could potentially be put to better uses, but she does not have to be a personality in order to make her family happy and to approach something close to happiness herself.
thanks. i'm done now. for good, i hope.
*i imagine a wendy pepper outfit, myself.
i hate myself.
edit edit edit: i should have told you the context behind this post. and, hey, if i can override my selfishness for a few weeks, this is the last journal entry that will ever mention me, so i might as well keep it up with the 'i's for today. we're a writing communtiy and we've found livejournal because we like writing or we think we express ourselves well with words, maybe even better than we do in speech or action, but something that i've realized in the past few days is that writing is a part of myself that i want to burn out, along with thinking and working out math problems and rewriting my spanish homework for neatness and trying to make jokes and everything else that just acts as a tacky embellishment or coating* for the thing that i really am, the one that chews and spits and sneezes and smells and fails every physical test ever put to varsity athletes, because once i do it, i will be more honest to myself and to you than i have ever been before, and at least you will be able to make the informed decision of staying away from me because you will know exactly who i am from my own mouth and not because i will first draw you birthday cards or pass notes to you in class or crack a joke over aim with you or follow you like a lovesick acolyte and then make you find out on your own that you have acquired the kind of gigapet that turns cranky and unresponsive and forgets to call you and won't make plans anymore and doesn't leave comments on your journal or email you or try to brighten your day anymore or write your family thank you cards for letting you drop in on sabbath dinner even though you did not contribute anything to the table, whether conversation or eye candy. if there is a lump in my throat over what my mother wrote, then, it is a happy one, because this is the best advice that i can ever remember her giving me. if you have read this far, i am sorry for any gloom that i may or may not have cast over your friends' page, but i am also relieved that it is finally coming out now: this is how i have always seen my place in the world, and this is the only way in which i can ever picture myself seeing my place in the world for the rest of my life. if i could just burn myself and my sense of self out of my life, i suspect that everything would be better for you and for me. rachel is a social security number and a collection of atrophying organs that could potentially be put to better uses, but she does not have to be a personality in order to make her family happy and to approach something close to happiness herself.
thanks. i'm done now. for good, i hope.
*i imagine a wendy pepper outfit, myself.