(no subject)
When is it going to be my turn? Everywhere I look all I see are smiling faces. Teeth and gums, teeth and gums. That's all I fucking see. It makes me want to retch in the middle of the road just so someone will fucking look at me. FUCKING LOOK AT ME. You fucking idiots, you think you're so fucking happy. Every last one of you, you know nothing. One of these days you'll be as alone as I am and you'll look in the mirror and ask, "When is it going to be my turn?" The only difference is that you'll be at the end of your life, your wrinkles criss-crossing your face, marring the smooth surface that was your youth. But I am as young as I will ever be. The most I could ever have to offer I have already put on the table, and still no one will even look at me. FUCKING LOOK AT ME. But every eye is glued to something else, and I have to train my focus on the ground to keep from running up to people and ripping their stupid fucking looks from their faces. Mark my words, someday you will have nothing left but your thoughts and you will long for the days when there wasn't a damn thing on your mind. All I do is think, because every time I try to DO, I get fucked over. You'd think by now I'd have learned my lesson, but I just keep walking into the same damn room and wondering how the hell I got there. Just let me out already. I want off the ride. I don't want to play this game anymore. I will never win. Just go on living without me. You won't notice the difference. You will sleep in your king-sized beds with your digital alarm clocks and your electric toothbrushes. You will pour your fucking cereal and your cup of coffee and unfold your damn newspaper. And you will line the bottoms of birdcages with the pages of my obituary.