i'm hungry i'm starving i'm losing my mind and everything's fine
The Bottom Line
The following is a whiny raft on an endless doldrum:
I have to keep telling myself that I haven't done anything wrong other than not being perfect. I hate that I wrote such a pathetic sentence that my stepmom would say but there it is.
I took you to art museums. We sat at an overpriced hotel restaurant. You had a lot to drink and started crying and I didn't want to hug you at all. The truth is I thought it was pathetic; I sort of feeling guilty thinking that, sort of don't. Only a palpable tragedy allows crying in public, and this does not include someone feeling distant.
I wanted to say it's your fault that we've changed; we were too close growing up, and then you threw a bunch of curveballs at me that made high school ten times more complicated than necessary, but I bite my tongue. At the end of the day only I can take the blame for the social problems, general awkwardness, and ultimate somnambulance during high school, but you played your part. I harbor so many truths that I could use to hurt you even more than you're hurting yourself, but you're humiliating yourself enough; there's no need. I suppose I should be reaching for the nearest band-aid and giving you a hug, but knowing what I could say to open the wound cancels the two choices out and I'm silent staring at my half-eaten slab of meat.
2005 was mixed. I've become more social, and equally more stereotypical. I've asserted myself a bit more. I've turned a good number of my friendships into obnoxiously subtextual power struggles, and I don't feel particularly close to any of them right now. But then again I've never had a "Best Friend" because I would expect that person to be perfect. If my dialogues were in a screenplay, I'd get a headache trying to break drown the beat objectives that I would most assuredly chuck the script into a fireplace ten pages in. I haven't sought out or been given the opportunity to express myself to my fullest capability, so I have no idea if I have as much potential talent as I once did, but probably not. I squandered all that away months ago upon the reactionary, lazy feelings of being misunderstood and disenfranchised, someone who refuses to communicate easily and thus always a curious sideshow on the way to the main exhibit. My work ethic has weakened significantly the more I feel I can't give until the moment feels right, which will never come until I choose to grow, which probably won't happen until I am truly and fully loved (finally), which I don't know that I would even let happen if I were to find myself in the right place at the right time, which in fact won't happen if I want it so that I can be loved, rather than wanting it so that I can love. I've realized that my work does not actually have much substance or desire to connect with other people and provide relatable human insight. Instead it's largely based on shock value that says more about my desperate, sad need to have my perversion accepted, you know, Anna Paquin in The Squid And The Whale.
You built me up to be this wunderkind for you because you needed to sacrifice yourself to something, a martyr complex. But now I'm getting older and stubbornly refusing to develop myself any further as part of a childish revenge. In fact I can tell I'm wasting my potential as my prose is steadily declining with more and more awkwardly tied prepositional phrases.
I know you want to know everything about me, but you can't begin to know any deep truth of myself till I've learned every single one myself, or at least all the important ones, so just wait. You want me to be everything for you, and I find that sickening. Merry Christmas.