I am a robot.
Although I enjoy writing, I can never create a title that sounds cool or interesting.
Sometimes, I wonder what the hell am I doing with my life. Like, I made this mistake, that decision, took that path. . . Yet, always immediately after, I go, "What if?"
Then, after that question, I ask it again, and again, "What if?" After asking what if, I would ask for an explanation. Not in a jackass or cynical manner, just out of curiosity.
I question everything, I've always came to the realization that I have, yet my boyfriend was the one who vocalized it. That and the fact that I am so repetitive, especially over the phone. The night before last, I finally concluded that my life is so mundane, that there is hardly anything left to even discuss, so it's only natural for me to go back to what I know. Personally, it's just that niche --that personal trait -- that I seem to only have. Anyone I've ever talked to in my almost nineteen years of living, I have never came across some one who had that trait to sound like an utter robot. When I have something happen to me, or hear or say something, it is basically implanted inside my brain, it's stored there. Then, there is a malfunction. That certain event is played internally and externally a million times over. Next, it is dissected a million times over with absolute analysis; the conclusion being played out with numerous scenarios and dialogue. However, it just boils down to the same conclusion. It had happen, it was said and done. There is no way of avoiding the realization of whatever was heard, said or the action being took.
I am so inane. I lack sense and substance.
I mean, I'm not that much of a robot anymore. . . When I think about it, I am. Just reprogrammed.
I don't gravel in self-pity and self-medicate myself with food and Nighttime Nyquil or ibuprofen to runway from the pain and sleep. That is if crying for endless of hours to try to fall asleep wasn't working. I don't just sit back and let people walk all over me with the assumption that I'll always be there for them. When in fact, they won't do the same. I just always found reasons to be sad rather than happy. I did what I wanted without doing what I do best, and reasoning the outcome, so it just left me with tons of problems. Then the cycle of self-pity, tears and consumption of food go into play. With all that effort put in those negative attributes, I had already fallen into a six feet deep hole being covered with dirt.
Now, because of that I'm clawing my way out. Slowly, and at rare times, I want to give up. Eat, then cry at my own funeral before lying on my back with my arms crossed above my chest. However, don't fret -- I use my scenario playing program to see what would happen if you know, I died. It's not great. People rely on me. I know, people don't see it that way, and I'm usually the immature one among most, but I am a main character.
And just because I am a main character doesn't mean I am a favorable one. My plain-face appearance to the outside world shows me as a cold, emotionless bitch, who needs to learn how to smile more often. That facade is all wrong. I think I am OVERLY emotional. I feed off of others emotions, and mirror it off to the world tenfold. It sucks because, sometimes I wish I wasn't such a crybaby, and don't need closure to satisfy myself. Like, sometimes I wish I can hang up abruptly and not harbor any remorse. Oh fuck me, let save that rant for another day.
Enough with the similes though. Bottom line is that you never quite realize what the hell is wrong with you unless someone decides to tell you. Especially if it's your boyfriend.
Sometimes, I wonder what the hell am I doing with my life. Like, I made this mistake, that decision, took that path. . . Yet, always immediately after, I go, "What if?"
Then, after that question, I ask it again, and again, "What if?" After asking what if, I would ask for an explanation. Not in a jackass or cynical manner, just out of curiosity.
I question everything, I've always came to the realization that I have, yet my boyfriend was the one who vocalized it. That and the fact that I am so repetitive, especially over the phone. The night before last, I finally concluded that my life is so mundane, that there is hardly anything left to even discuss, so it's only natural for me to go back to what I know. Personally, it's just that niche --that personal trait -- that I seem to only have. Anyone I've ever talked to in my almost nineteen years of living, I have never came across some one who had that trait to sound like an utter robot. When I have something happen to me, or hear or say something, it is basically implanted inside my brain, it's stored there. Then, there is a malfunction. That certain event is played internally and externally a million times over. Next, it is dissected a million times over with absolute analysis; the conclusion being played out with numerous scenarios and dialogue. However, it just boils down to the same conclusion. It had happen, it was said and done. There is no way of avoiding the realization of whatever was heard, said or the action being took.
I am so inane. I lack sense and substance.
I mean, I'm not that much of a robot anymore. . . When I think about it, I am. Just reprogrammed.
I don't gravel in self-pity and self-medicate myself with food and Nighttime Nyquil or ibuprofen to runway from the pain and sleep. That is if crying for endless of hours to try to fall asleep wasn't working. I don't just sit back and let people walk all over me with the assumption that I'll always be there for them. When in fact, they won't do the same. I just always found reasons to be sad rather than happy. I did what I wanted without doing what I do best, and reasoning the outcome, so it just left me with tons of problems. Then the cycle of self-pity, tears and consumption of food go into play. With all that effort put in those negative attributes, I had already fallen into a six feet deep hole being covered with dirt.
Now, because of that I'm clawing my way out. Slowly, and at rare times, I want to give up. Eat, then cry at my own funeral before lying on my back with my arms crossed above my chest. However, don't fret -- I use my scenario playing program to see what would happen if you know, I died. It's not great. People rely on me. I know, people don't see it that way, and I'm usually the immature one among most, but I am a main character.
And just because I am a main character doesn't mean I am a favorable one. My plain-face appearance to the outside world shows me as a cold, emotionless bitch, who needs to learn how to smile more often. That facade is all wrong. I think I am OVERLY emotional. I feed off of others emotions, and mirror it off to the world tenfold. It sucks because, sometimes I wish I wasn't such a crybaby, and don't need closure to satisfy myself. Like, sometimes I wish I can hang up abruptly and not harbor any remorse. Oh fuck me, let save that rant for another day.
Enough with the similes though. Bottom line is that you never quite realize what the hell is wrong with you unless someone decides to tell you. Especially if it's your boyfriend.