Oh, vie. Oh, life.
If it’s not anxiety or sleeplessness, it’s depression. I love life. Every day, the insecure part of me is feeling like I’m getting more and more hopeless at functioning normally around others. I get paranoid that people are out to purposely hurt me when the practical part of me insists that there’s no reason for them to. All my thoughts are scattered. It’s Sunday night. The only reason I go to school is for Dance and to see the six friends I have. I know six is plenty and I should be grateful. It doesn’t make a difference. No matter what, I feel like I’m falling short. I have six friends, they have a hundred and six. I write a song, they write a symphony. I have red Converse, they have something that make them look like the tackiest things on earth. I just want to be the most comfortable with myself and self-assured person in the room for once in my life, and I don’t know how that’s ever going to happen.
The words are not long formed from my keyboard before I come to hate them. You’ve heard this a thousand times before. People have felt this 6.57 x 10 to the 48th power times before. This isn’t new, and it’s definitely not read with pleasure and feelings of stimulation. (Okay, I swear to God, I was not thinking of that in the perverted way as I was typing it.) So lemme have it. I should suck it up and stop whining, right?
The words are not long formed from my keyboard before I come to hate them. You’ve heard this a thousand times before. People have felt this 6.57 x 10 to the 48th power times before. This isn’t new, and it’s definitely not read with pleasure and feelings of stimulation. (Okay, I swear to God, I was not thinking of that in the perverted way as I was typing it.) So lemme have it. I should suck it up and stop whining, right?