Self improvement, is that what you call it?

I’m tired, but I suppose I will write regardless. If I don’t write something here, I’m going to do nothing but spend another few useless hours surfing the internet. Both are useless, really, but what isn’t? I’m just rotting, waiting to die. Waiting for something, anything. Waiting for whatever it is that isn’t coming. It’s just me, all alone, typing. I’m not anymore liberated than I was before—I’m not in denial, sure, but I’m not getting any better. Recognizing what is wrong ceases to fix anything unless one is willing to change.

I’m not. I want things to go on as they are because I know any alternative will be worse. Pessimistic? I really couldn’t give a shit. You can’t fix things by going around with a fake smile plastered on. It’s not going to do anything but fuel the rage and perpetuate the lie. And why lie, I must ask? Do I care enough to believe that I need to? I must. If I didn’t care I wouldn’t hide. I want my secrecy, I want my solitude. If I tell the truth, that will all get taken away, the few things that are just enough to convince me that there isn’t all bad.

I used to think that if it was just me, it would be better, I would get better. But now it’s me who says what I don’t want to hear, I’m the dark voice whispering about failure. I want to fail. I want to crumble and wither and die. Because I know nothing else. Because secretly I always believed what everyone said about me, I knew it was true. This misery is all that’s there now. Misery and greed. And greed can’t get me far right now. I can’t step out of the sanctuary—I am not ready to leave it. I want to die in it. I’ll have me and it will be alright. We’ll hate and scream and tear what’s left apart. Fight over the pieces.

I want a hostile takeover. I want that so-called “evil” in me to just finish off what’s here. I want that incredibly numb person I turn into for weeks on end to just take the reins…permanently. I don’t want to feel anymore. I don’t want to remember anymore. I like it when I’m incapable of crying, when there isn’t a constant ache in my chest when I think about how stupid this all is. How self indulgent. But I am selfish, I know that. In reality I want that to be what drives me—I want the narcissist to do away with the self-loathing so that I can get on with life feeling as though I deserve to be here even in this state. I want perfect apathy.

The fucking problem is the damn part that’s left. This fucking whining little bitch that I want to tear out of me. Where did she come from? I get my wish, my apathy, then those fucking pangs of humanity start ripping through the fabric, ruining it. I want one or the other—I loathe the grey.

Hours wasted. I love that they’re a waste. There’s nothing better than a waste of life when everyone around you would give anything for just another second. How’s that for apathy?

Those who mock.

I’m just going to go mad. Get it all off my chest.

You what annoys me? People who mock you,  yet are too cowardly to do it directly to your face. It’s like those school bullies who aren’t brave enough to actually assert their alpha status, so they lurk in corners with ten friends at their elbows, whispering things as people walk by. In fact, I have more respect for the assholes who get in your face about it, than the ones who giggle behind their hands and scamper away.

I had sort of an eventful day, an eventful few days, to be specific. Everyone seems to have a problem with something I’m doing lately, and it’s quite irritating. How it is anyone’s business is beyond me. That’s just it; it’s none of their fucking business, yet they seem to think they can make it their business.

I like my godparents, but my godmother has her moments. She tends to be very insecure, particularly when it comes to aesthetics (i.e. weight). When people come to your house it should be to have fun, not to hear twenty comments about how you look.

I always expect comments from them; it comes with the territory. Everyone always says something about my hair, and quite frankly I’m fucking sick of it. Yes, it’s black. No, it doesn’t match my skin tone, I know this, so there is no need to continually point it out. No, I’m not going to change it/cut it just because you don’t like how long it’s getting or that it’s black. It’s been this way for nearly five years now. Do you honestly think hearing it from every damned relative/acquaintance is going to change my mind? If you do, you know nothing about me.

This time it was weight. It was this way last time they came over as well. Endless comments, not all good. What I hate though, is that I left the room for a few minutes, and my godmother said a bunch of things to my mother about me (my mom told me later of course, and defended me, as always). I honestly hate to say this, but I know she’s jealous of me, my godmother I mean. She’s been getting more and more defensive about all of it, and more or less told my mom that I lost the weight too fast, and that it was unhealthy. (It’s been 6 months, and I’ve lost about 50 pounds, actually a quite healthy time span, even if the dieting wasn’t always…perfect.) She kept arguing with my mom about it, as though she knew what she was talking about. My godmother only saw me about two or three times during the period I lost weight, so of course it seemed drastic to her. You would figure she’d understand that part.

She’s done this before, the exact opposite though, with my mom when she was younger. She basically called her fat (way more than just once, I might add) in a sissy, cowardly way, so in no way is this all unfounded. It’s happened before, and my mom is not the type to defend herself. She lets things stew and stew, and she never, ever retaliated. Needless to say, there’s always a bit of tension there on my mom’s side at least.

It’s not concern either, it’s that hidden biting kind of comment that makes me pissed. My godmother has to keep chiming in that she’s smaller than me, and so on and so forth, and really, I couldn’t give any less of a fuck; this isn’t a fucking competition. Who cares what size she is or what her measurements are. Yes, she just had to offer up her waist measurement when my dad was asking me about corset sizes, because she didn’t want to sound like she was outdone. You can’t see it, but I’m rolling my eyes. She’s just mad that we’re the same size and I only keep shrinking. Yeah, well, try hating yourself beyond all belief and you’ll get skinny too. It’s a beautiful recipe for disaster.

I hate it. I don’t want to sit there constantly getting blindsided by comments. No, I’m not getting too thin, in fact, I’m a very healthy weight right now. If I continue to lose weight, it’s none of your fucking concern, it’s mine. I don’t care how much you weigh, or if you’re skinnier than me, all I care about is me, and what’s best for ME. And if you’re so unhappy just lose weight, Jesus Christ, stop fucking griping like a child about it and having kittens because for once I don’t feel like I have to cover myself in three layers of clothes to feel comfortable. Be HAPPY for me. Be GLAD that I am feeling a little better and not eating myself to death like I was. I’m not really happier, that’s a blatant lie. I’m just more distracted. But you get the point.

Anyway, yes, I’m bitching. But I fucking swear, they were here TWO days and it NEVER ended. I almost went nuts. One thing after another. My godfather is always joking about it, but it still gets to me because it’s paired with everything else being said. I went to their house and all they did was offer me food, as though to see if I would ignore it or eat it. I’m not a fucking specimen to be studied. It just made me furious, and I am TRYING to be civil with them. If it was anyone else I’d be in their fucking face screaming at them to back the fuck off, but as it is…they are always great to me otherwise and they don’t deserve that. So I’ll bite my tongue…for now. If it gets worse, however, I won’t promise anything.

Then of course there were some instances at the store with strangers that I’m not going to mention. It all just added up to a boiling fury that needed to be unleashed. I just want to be left alone, ignored like I always am. It’s so much better, less complicated. When you’re fat no one looks at you twice; it’s great. It’s evil the way the world works, but I don’t control it, I only live in it. If people want to be nothing but narcissists, that is their prerogative…and stupidity. Suddenly I’m interesting because I’m more suited toward an ideal; it just proves, yet again, how people can be so easily swayed. And they don’t see it, that is the hilarious part.

You know when you close your eyes and make a wish? God’s the guy that ignores you.

Not that you should be asking him for anything anyway. Too needy for my taste. Why should I ask someone to do something for me, if I know that it costs? Nothing comes without a price, without loyalty. There is no such thing as people giving to one another freely. They always get something out of it, some payoff. Maybe it isn’t openly apparent, but it is there, waiting to be discovered. We’re all selfish, and really, there’s nothing wrong with that. What bothers me is when people go to extraordinary lengths to conceal it.

Like God. He has a whole book telling you why you should follow him. No one ever asks, “Hey, what does God get out of it?” He gave us life, so we must pay him back? Is that the idea? Yes, well, he also gave us suffering, and pain, and hate. He hates. Read a hundred fucking pages and you can feel it, seeping from the pages like a poison. Hate’s good, but not when you spend your life trying to deny it, calling it evil, calling it dark. Hate is the brightest light in existence. There’s more hate than anything else. Embrace it. Love it.  

I never asked him to live. I don’t owe him anything. I also never asked him to die for my “sins”. They aren’t sins to me, they are life sustaining activities. I’d have nothing else otherwise, because I sure the fuck am not going to bow down and lick someone’s boots. He died so that people would worship him. He died to become dictator of the world. And let us not forget he can come back again any time he pleases. It didn’t matter if hedied. He’s immortal after all. He can just impregnate some other virgin and start all over if he wants. I only get once. That cocksucker can just get killed off, and suddenly, “poof!”. He’s a martyr. Savior. Benevolent, selfless, you cannot apply those words to something like that. He’s just as human as the rest of us, with flaws and stupidity and biases, and most of all, a desire for power. Mr. Megalomania. Mr. Sadist. Mr. Fascist. Mr. Fucking Bigot.

People throw bible quotes in your face, tell you to look it up. Try to prove it with The Word. All you do is give me more fuel. More reason to hate it, hate the confines, this fucking little prison. I don’t hate the people, no, not like I used to. I just hate him, the hypocrite. The one who does it and gets away with it with a sickly yellow grin. People are always going to have ideas I hate, oh well. At least it gives me something to bitch about, right?

This is the way things are going to be. You will cry all alone, and it doesn’t mean a thing to him, to anyone. We’re all disposable and useless, yet we still live acting like we mean something. It’s just an excuse. Just a lie. We can’t even accept our own selfishness unless we coat it with something aesthetically appealing. Dress up that neat little pile of shit, make it look pretty, less self centered. Denial. Everyone is in constant denial.  

You’re here for five minutes of pleasure, and a lifetime of pain. Take it or leave it.

Seeking truth, telling only lies.

There are some things that have to be kept quiet. Not because you are ashamed, but because you acknowledge the fact that if you reveal your bizarre ideas/habits to others, you risk complete alienation from your lifesource. Unless you are an entirely independent person, the unfortunate truth is that you are often forced to conform, whether you like it or not.

The truth is, I despise being the liar. I can’t fucking stand it. It’s horrible. I want more than anything to be able to say to my parents/godparents the same things I say to strangers. I want to be open. I want to be able to not give a shit about what I say, because in all honesty, I’m a very no fuss sort of person. I like to be blunt, get to the point. It’s only when I want something that I resort to being mysterious.

The longer I’m here, the more I see how distant I’m becoming. Things pile up, and I have to make more lies to accomodate. More and more weird obsessions/desires, ones that I indulge in privately. Fixations I would call them. Not normal ones, mind you. Things that are blatantly fucking strange, that even I don’t fully understand or want to analyze. Some things are better left in the dark, I guess. I am not one to deny myself things; it can be both beneficial and horrible at the same time. I don’t believe in barring myself from something unless the pain of doing so is somehow pleasurable.

I don’t know anymore. I keep thinking I’m getting sicker, more numb, more apathetic. More misanthropic. And it’s just making me eccentric.

Eccentric. I’ve always said it is just a fancy term for fucking psycho.

The inevitable.

My lack of feeling is, at times, something that frightens me. If you can’t care about the ones who care for you, then what are you? I do not believe in being perfect, or being a so-called ‘good person’ in accordance with what society teaches us, but I do however, hold to my personal beliefs of repaying debt whenever possible.

When I talk about debt, to me it is an equivalent to money: it builds up over time. Someday you have to either pay it off, or shrug it off. You can ignore it, but when it is a very personal type of payment, it tends to have consequences on one’s mental health. Really, you feel like an utter asshole for acting as though the help was irrelevant when it came from someone who genuinely looked out for your well being with little to be gained for it.

I woke up this morning to a tapping. I’m laying flat on my stomach with my head buried in a pillow, blinking irritably, thinking to myself, “it’s not dad’s day off, so who the fuck is making all that noise outside?”. Then the dog starts barking insanely, and I roll over, thinking that it will all go away if I just ignore it. That works, for a few seconds. But the damned tapping continues, and I literally fling the blankets off of me, and stumble over the fan to the window. It’s so bright from the snow that I can’t see that well, but I do figure out that the car is parked by the deck, not its usual parking spot.

I decide to investigate. When I open the door, there’s my mom, out on the snow where she fell. There’s a clean patch in the snow where she slipped, revealing the long stretch of ice underneath. She’s stuck, can’t get up. Turns out she hit her head on the ice as well, and her legs aren’t working too effectively. The car doors are all open, so I can tell she just got back from the grocery store. Needless to say, someone who has broken their neck should NOT be falling down, or even worse, hitting their head. But with some effort one both of our parts, she manages to get to her feet without either of us falling.

This has never happened before, falling. But it just makes me realize how helpless she really is. I forget at times, I get too self absorbed, and she doesn’t whine about it constantly like most people would. In fact, if anything, she overdoes everything. Works too much, tries to accomplish too much, so I am constantly telling her to slow the fuck down and take it easy. I don’t know where this laid back nature has come from; I never had it before, but in all honesty, I think being around people who are the “go, go, go” type, has really changed my own perspectives. It gets done when it gets done, that’s my philosophy.

Anyway, I know she’s going to swell up tomorrow. I’m just hoping she didn’t mess anything up from before. But at the same time, there is no worry, it’s just…thought. There isn’t a feeling attached to it. And sometimes, I desperately wish there was. She’s done a lot for me, even if she hasn’t been perfect. She doesn’t deserve pure apathy. Unfortunately, a vague loyalty is all I can offer anyone right now. I can’t decide anymore if that to me personally, is a good thing or a bad thing. I know I should care, because that’s what I’ve been taught, but is that the way it really is? In reality I don’t have to care, I don’t even have to think about it, but obviously I wouldn’t be talking about it if it wasn’t bothering me.

I guess it doesn’t matter; I can’t force it. And sometimes it’s better not being drawn into something. I know she’s not going to live long, I think that is why that there are times where I know that someday I will feel guilt for not having the proper emotions about it all. And it’s not just for me, it’s for her. I know she worries about me, and realistically it should be reciprocated…but…it isn’t. The more animal I become, the more things keep falling away from me. What mattered once, matters no longer. And I just can’t be sad about that, for whatever reason.

Experimentation.

I got woken up this morning at 9:30, with the light switched on, glaring in my face. My mom had the phone in her hand and said simply, “It’s the funeral home.” I’m half asleep. Hell, I just fell to sleep barely three hours previous, as I had a long, tedious night trying to force myself to finish my damn writing that I keep slacking off on.

I’m running options through my head as I take the phone, too tired to even have a vague hint of anxiety about using a telephone, let alone talking to a stranger no less. Much to my surprise, my voice is calm, I feel dull. No, it’s not some job offer, it’s just someone being nice for once and getting back to me because I sent them my resume. All full, no spaces to hire for, though they’ll keep me on file for later, should something come up. I think my mother was thinking that I got the job or something, but thankfully I was too deep in my sleep cycle for that shit to even register, so there was no excitement to be crushed.

Actually, I’m wondering if anything besides buying useless things off of the internet can make me feel a little…I don’t know, normal? Not so, numb? I’ve had a few very clear days, where I’ve been evaluating my situation, and come to find that I can still wait a bit longer. I can wait until spring, I have enough in me to keep going for a short while. But not forever. But by spring people will be hiring, and perhaps I WILL get out of this house for more than a few short minutes at a time.

I’ve become so material it’s a bit sickening. I’m playing little mindgames with myself since there’s nobody else to play with. I obsess over the most mundane of things, spending hours and hours of my day researching shit that is just not important. And I don’t care. It’s okay. If it makes me feel alright for a few hours, what harm could it possibly be doing?

Yes, in a way, it is avoidance, but it is not like it was. I know the darkness is lurking like it always does, waiting for a vulnerable moment where it can tear me down with it again. But oh well. Those are my monsters, everyone has them. Mine just like to play more than most people’s, and they tend to get a hell of a lot rougher. But we reach agreements, or I beat them down, one way or the other. I find myself agreeing more and more, losing bits and pieces of whatever fake morality remains. Someday there will be none. No taboos for me, nothing to stop the onslaught of negative thought. No pathetic little voice to claim to me “it isn’t right”, when I myself know that all of it is so fucking inconsequential.

The games. Lately there has been a fun one. It’s easier to do now that I have a wallet full of giftcards at my disposal, and my social anxiety seems to have dwindled somewhat. There has been nothing that has been slowing me down but the depression, the rest can be overruled, ignored. So the game, it’s a social experiment. A test. Some stupid thing to do since everytime I go out into the world I find myself bored out of my mind, searching for something that will break up the dullness. I loathe leaving my house for the dreary little city, where nothing is ever in stock and the people are utterly uninteresting.

The influence clothing has on perception is so substantial. It’s like a blueprint to explain to the world who you are, purely depending on their own distorted perceptions of course. So it varies, but anyway…. I’ve had enough money that I’ve invested in so-called “adult” clothes. Now I have my closet full of comfortable, generally black tee shirts, and another half designated to these impostor clothes. It’s all a lie, of course. When isn’t it? I like comfortable, no fuss. Black is easy because my cat is black, therefore his hair doesn’t show, and stains aren’t really ever apparent, that, and it’s my favorite shade. And hey, the bonus is, you get stereotyped and people back the fuck away thinking you’re going to go Columbine or something.

So for some occasions, I’ve dressed like a “lady”. I get called ma’am a lot, I noticed, and people smile at me more, are more comfortable to stand near me, or ask me if I need assistance (suddenly I’m “fragile”). I look like I’m almost like everyone else, except I dress less casual, more like I polished up for something. I don’t get the snobby looks when I walk into a specialty store (something I’ll get into in a minute). I also get more stares, and not the bad kind. Unfortunately, that sort of reaction just makes me bitter and pissed, because I know for a fucking fact that if I was dressing sloppily and wearing a ring on every finger with five necklaces around my neck, no one would stare except to observe the “unpleasant” spectacle. It’s a bit sick how humans work.

Then there are the days where playing normal sounds too boring and takes too much effort for me to muster. Why play when it doesn’t seem like fun? These are the bad days. Really, people will treat you like shit. And granted, sometimes they ALWAYS treat you like shit, regardless of what you are wearing, but what I am saying, is that like we all know, some people are more inclined to treat you in a particular manner if you are dressed in a way that evokes a stereotype in their head. Suddenly you aren’t a “lady”, you’re a freaky person who’s going to go on a killing spree, or who must be rude and obnoxious to everyone.

There are a lot of boutiques in Vegas, especially in and around the casinos. Walking into one wearing a band shirt with black nail polish, black hair, and boots, will get you the cruelest of glares. And I’m not ANYWHERE near extreme. I’m practically normal when it comes to how I dress. There’s just a lot of bugs preserved in acrylic and some mean sayings on shirts, so what? But yet it’s like a bomb went off. Everyone turns to look, you become a freak centerpiece to their world of strict ideals, something to be tossed, snubbed.

I went to a corset specialty store when I was there awhile back, and the sales people would barely even look at me. It was like I wasn’t there. And you know how those places are, the workers on commission, trying to sink their claws into you, trying to convince you to buy something.

You know what’s funny? I had about $700 when I went, more than enough to buy something if I wanted it. But yet they act like I’m just a stupid kid in an “grownup” store. I must not have money. I must be browsing with no intent to buy. This happened in several of the stores inside the casino malls, where they would walk up and offer to help other customers, but not me. Their loss, not mine, though I have to say not being bothered certainly has its perks for someone like me. I just think it’s ironic. I know if I go back in a few years, that I will return to that store. And the day I go, I’m going to wear a fucking suit, with my hair pulled back and see what happens. Because BOTH times I went to Vegas I was treated the same way, because it was over 100 degrees and I felt that since I was on vacation I was entitled to dress for comfort.

Anyway, that is what I’ve observed. My little test to pass the time. It’s years in the making, but has become a little more precise lately, since I have been so willing to leave my house. Not to mention, I’ve been going on what I would consider to be insane shopping sprees (though I’m sure they are nothing compared to most…I tend to horde money), trying to placate myself with material bullshit that distracts me from depression. I don’t know. I’m just doing the day by day thing. As far as I am concerned, there might not be a future.

Away for five minutes, and suddenly, it’s waterworld.

This morning I get up late, as usual. It’s three in the afternoon, I’m still half asleep. I let the cats out of their cage (yes, they are caged at night), feed them, go to the bathroom. All the morning ritual stuff. Then I go into the kitchen to get something to munch on, off in my own world as usual, not realizing that a room away, the floor is beginning to fill with water. I’m taking my time, eating a square of cornbread just standing around next to the island watching my mother mess around with the dishes.

I wander back to my room, because I hear running water. I’m thinking ‘must have left the sink running’, but then I have the panic thought of ‘oh shit!! The toilet?!’. It has been acting up lately, running and running because one of the parts is broken. I’ve just been fiddling with it to get it to stop, but it needs to be replaced. Anyway, I open the door, and the water isn’t even in the bathroom anymore! It’s entered into my room itself, which thankfully has a lino pathway that stopped the water from hitting the carpet.

My poor cat is standing on the island of carpet, glaring down at the water because its encroached on his territory. The other cat is nowhere to be found, long having retreated under the bed. I say “Oh FUCK!” about five times, as I’m tearing my pants and socks off to get to the damned valve. I do eventually shut it off, and the water stops flowing, but I realize quite quickly that the water is seeping into the walls, the carpets are absolutely soaked, so I throw those in the tub.

My mother decides to be sparse with the towels when I ask her for them, and comes back with about three and a sponge mop that is utterly useless (I have a large bathroom and if you can imagine, about half an inch of water throughout the entire thing, then through some of my bedroom). I was not in the mood for it at the time, and wanted to just tell her to get the fuck out and let me deal with it. But she helped me, and eventually did get more towels after I threatened to use paper ones.

Anyway, I’ve learned to hate/love toilets. If they’re not overflowing on me for no reason, they’re spewing sewage in the backyard or filling up my bathroom with water. At least it wasn’t shit though. Wouldn’t that have sucked? Unfortunately, the water did get far. My dad went under the house to check when he got home, and found that the liner beneath the insulation was filled with water. I’m sitting under the porch with a flashlight and I can hear the water when he cuts a slit in the plastic. Sounds like someone turned the sink on. But he says it can dry out now, and nothing should go wrong or anything, since it isn’t just going to sit in the insulation; its free to drain out. Uhg. I’m just glad I knew there was a valve, because I confess…about a week ago…I didn’t know there was one. Ha. That would have been interesting…. Sad, yes, but I’m young, give me time.

Weak, ravenous.

I really love the winter, I do. I love the cold, the fact that if I go for a walk there’s no one out to bother me because they are all too wary of the freezing temperatures. I even like the snow, to an extent. But lately, I just haven’t been well. I feel almost like I have the flu. A lot of people talk about having the winter blues and whatnot, when to me, if there were to be an season I get particularly down about, it would be summer. That’s the time in which everyone is out and about, everyday, all day. So I guess I just like the opposite: I enjoy winter because of the lack of people (usually the reason people don’t like it…), and I hate summer because there are too many people. But goddamnit, sometimes it’s just too cold to go outside.

Anyway, I haven’t wanted to get up. Out of bed, I mean. I want to sleep and sleep, because I keep waking up exhausted for some reason. I keep thinking, “if I sleep until 5, I’ll only have to see my parents a few hours”, after which, I then can spend the night locked away in my room. Alone. Undisturbed. I can pursue my bizarre nightly activities and no one is none the wiser. And no, I’m not talking about something depraved, though I suppose there is always that too. I think I’m just to that point where I am going to do what I want, but I am still secretive enough about it that I can wait the entire day if I have to. That’s what the day is to me, really: a waste. All I do it wait for it to be over. If I lived in the city, I think I would wander it every night. As it is, I live in the middle of nowhere, and at night, when my brain is actually functioning and I don’t feel like I’m falling apart, I’m trapped inside a house.

I can’t drive anymore. I thought I’d finally have some sort of freedom, but we can’t afford the insurance for it. Until I get a job, legally I can’t drive my car because I’m a member of the household with a license and therefore have to be paid for on the insurance. So now I just don’t drive. I guess it’s not like I was anyway; I still am unemployed, so the idea of getting hit by another incompetent moron, yet again, is not something I like to think about.

I kind of hate cars, even though when I was younger I was quite obsessed with them, and still am to an extent. I’m just sick of dealing with my dad’s bullshit over all of it (and it’s never my fault, that’s the hilarious part; someone always hits me). Everytime there’s a fender bender, he acts like someone died. He gets all cold and quiet and won’t talk to anyone, like a four year old throwing a tantrum. I can’t help but get angry when he asks a stupid question like, “why don’t you drive the truck?” Oh I don’t know, maybe because it’s yours? If someone hit me in that thing or god fucking forbid I back into something because it’s like driving a semi, I would never hear the end of it.

I just feel…stuck, I guess. I keep thinking what I need to do is go out and date someone, then move in with them, just to get out of here. Sounds crazy, I know, and it’s not like I don’t care about my parents. I just want to be away, in a house where someone leaves for extended periods of time, someone I can ignore. I have this idea in my head of maybe doing exactly what it is I loathe. Getting married, just to get the fuck away. Selfish, cruel, sure, but it could work. I’d get a divorce, obviously, but I’d have someone to lean on for a few years before I fling myself out to wherever it is I want to go. I’m going crazy here, that’s the problem. I need something different. I’m so tired of feeling like I’m suffocating under all of these hopes and dreams my parents have.

Then again, this is just crazy talk. I’m stir crazy. I can easily just stay with my parents until I get a job and start saving for whatever. A house, I guess. I want a house. Somewhere far fucking away, where no one can ever bother me again. Where it’s just me. But that means years of staying here. Years and years. I don’t know if I’m cut out for that; it makes me feel so useless to be here, day after day. I’m never going to go back to college, I’m almost certain. There’s just nothing I want to do, no subject that interests me enough to pursue it, find a job in it, whatever. I hate all of this numbness. It’s as though I can’t formulate an opinion about it, what I want, I mean. I keep trying to think of something, but nothing comes out at me. It’s all the same dull grey, nothingness. It means nothing to me, because I mean nothing to me.