(no subject)
Disclaimer: The following LiveJournal entry may be too graphic for some audiences. I refer to myself as a toilet and being full of other people's. . . well, you know. If content like that would disturb, bother, or offend you in any manner, please refrain from reading what follows.
*sigh*
Things just seem to keep getting worse for me. My job is killing my body, my father's being a complete asshole to me 24/7, and my relationship is suffering its worst trials yet.
But, you know what? It's entirely my fault.
You see, I've spent my entire life trying to make people happy and do for others. I've been a generous jerk since I was fucking born. I do everything in my power to please everyone around me all the time, and it's finally starting to break me. I can't do it. I can't live up to making others happy when I'm not happy myself.
And, believe me, I've gotten very little help in the "making Jordan happy" department. Some people -- nameley one -- try. Occasionally, they succeed. But not in any real, lasting way. My happiness, my uplifted mood, is always impermanent. It's always a transient feeling of hope and joy that's quickly crushed by the knowledge that, truth be told, I hate my life. I hate where I am, I hate what I do, and I hate what I have to put up with from everyone around me.
I'm a toilet to other people. I take all their shit. That's my job -- taking others' shit is what I was made for. That's my lot in life, I suppose. I take their shit and it relieves them, makes them feel better. But no one ever flushes. Like the rude asshole who used the stall before you, they simply don't bother to push the damn lever and relieve me of all the shit that's backed up inside me. And, after twenty years, there's a lot of shit I've had to hold onto.
In the modern-day world, there are actually self-flushing toilets. You don't even have to motion activate the damn things; they simply flush periodically. Whoever invented these things is a fucking genius. But I'm not one of them. I'm a regular old, white, porcelain toilet that you have to manually flush in order for me to work properly.
People have clogged me. They've clogged the God damn toilet that is my emotional center. You dare try to flush me now and I'll overflow. And that's exactly what I've done today: I overflowed. Someone -- I won't name names here -- decided that, after all the shit I've been given, she's going to flush me. Instead of calling a plumber or at least having a towel ready to catch the run-off, she flushed me without any thought to the consequences. And, oh my, were there consequences.
I went off. She went off. I essentially called her a four-letter word that I now regret with every particle of my being calling her. It all ended badly.
And all this because I didn't work properly for her in the first place. I hadn't already been flushed, and because of that I stank. She got mad at me for shit that, frankly, wasn't my damn fault. Does she not understand the concept of working 10 straight hours and being too tired to call her? Does she not understand that her getting online made it appear like we'd talk there? Does she not understand that I can't talk to two people on the phone at the same time when my mother calls me and starts chit-chatting incessantly?
I guess not.
*sigh*
I guess expecting people to flush me, to be understanding of the fact that this particular toilet is an older model and has to be flushed manually in order to work properly, is too much to ask. But it unbalances me to be so full of others' shit, to help relieve them when I am the one in most dire need of that relief. I need to be flushed. I need to be happy. And I can't be. Never.
I just wish things could be different.
*sigh*
Things just seem to keep getting worse for me. My job is killing my body, my father's being a complete asshole to me 24/7, and my relationship is suffering its worst trials yet.
But, you know what? It's entirely my fault.
You see, I've spent my entire life trying to make people happy and do for others. I've been a generous jerk since I was fucking born. I do everything in my power to please everyone around me all the time, and it's finally starting to break me. I can't do it. I can't live up to making others happy when I'm not happy myself.
And, believe me, I've gotten very little help in the "making Jordan happy" department. Some people -- nameley one -- try. Occasionally, they succeed. But not in any real, lasting way. My happiness, my uplifted mood, is always impermanent. It's always a transient feeling of hope and joy that's quickly crushed by the knowledge that, truth be told, I hate my life. I hate where I am, I hate what I do, and I hate what I have to put up with from everyone around me.
I'm a toilet to other people. I take all their shit. That's my job -- taking others' shit is what I was made for. That's my lot in life, I suppose. I take their shit and it relieves them, makes them feel better. But no one ever flushes. Like the rude asshole who used the stall before you, they simply don't bother to push the damn lever and relieve me of all the shit that's backed up inside me. And, after twenty years, there's a lot of shit I've had to hold onto.
In the modern-day world, there are actually self-flushing toilets. You don't even have to motion activate the damn things; they simply flush periodically. Whoever invented these things is a fucking genius. But I'm not one of them. I'm a regular old, white, porcelain toilet that you have to manually flush in order for me to work properly.
People have clogged me. They've clogged the God damn toilet that is my emotional center. You dare try to flush me now and I'll overflow. And that's exactly what I've done today: I overflowed. Someone -- I won't name names here -- decided that, after all the shit I've been given, she's going to flush me. Instead of calling a plumber or at least having a towel ready to catch the run-off, she flushed me without any thought to the consequences. And, oh my, were there consequences.
I went off. She went off. I essentially called her a four-letter word that I now regret with every particle of my being calling her. It all ended badly.
And all this because I didn't work properly for her in the first place. I hadn't already been flushed, and because of that I stank. She got mad at me for shit that, frankly, wasn't my damn fault. Does she not understand the concept of working 10 straight hours and being too tired to call her? Does she not understand that her getting online made it appear like we'd talk there? Does she not understand that I can't talk to two people on the phone at the same time when my mother calls me and starts chit-chatting incessantly?
I guess not.
*sigh*
I guess expecting people to flush me, to be understanding of the fact that this particular toilet is an older model and has to be flushed manually in order to work properly, is too much to ask. But it unbalances me to be so full of others' shit, to help relieve them when I am the one in most dire need of that relief. I need to be flushed. I need to be happy. And I can't be. Never.
I just wish things could be different.