Annoyed. Hopeless.

I’m not in a very pleasant mood. I think I’m just tiring of doing the same old shit all of the time with no way of escape. No one will hire me (and believe me, I’ve applied everywhere), so here I am at home, day after fucking day, doing absolutely nothing. That, and hey, I do have a driver’s license, but I’m not allowed to use it. I feel like everything I’ve tried to do means nothing. It’s all in vain. This is all just a mistake, living is a mistake. All I do is buy useless shit I don’t need, and sit at this computer typing when I don’t even want this.

It’s not a matter of feeling sorry for myself, it’s a matter of realizing there is no reason to be here. I am trapped—chained—to my parents and whatever befalls them. I can’t get away. I could run, sure, but to where? And not to mention, I would have nothing. I have all the comforts in the world here, but the unhappiness wells up so strongly at times that it feels suffocating. This is supposed to be what everyone wants. Being comfortable as well as you can be, all from years of throwing money into the system and accumulating everything you could possibly need. But I don’t need the things half so much as I am starving for just a taste of independence. Of getting the hell away from humanity, away from all the things that pull them down, all the things that are pulling me down because I’ve let this place poison me.

I’m dying slowly. Maybe I do deserve it.

For those who seek help: you’ll never find any….

I wonder sometimes if I have a secret fear of death that I’m not accounting for. I’ve come to believe that it’s that idea that keeps me around, you know, the one that everyone always is so fixated on. Things getting better, or finding something different that suddenly makes me realize it will all somehow be worth it, that misery is somehow redeemed.

Does anyone stop and think about how childish that sounds? Do they understand that this is their own, the one thing that belongs to them, this life? It’s more control than any of these people deserve, but they have it and squander it. I’m not endorsing suicide, I’m endorsing taking control of what you have and doing what you want with it, and to hell with anyone who would dare speak otherwise. You can burn it, cut it, break it, starve it, and no one can stop you.

And the funny thing is, the only ones who do get stopped are the ones who scream bloody murder about it, showing off their deeds to anyone who will take the time to look. And people wonder why suicides are always so ‘abrupt’ or ‘completely unexpected’. Perhaps you just did not look. I would never show myself to anyone, even if I was dying, I would never tell. Because that would mean betrayal, that would mean sacrificing the few secrets I can keep. Note to those who just don’t get it: it’s the quiet ones that go through with it and succeed, not the whining lunatics searching for attention and a few chapters to add to their bland life story.

Everyone wants to think it’s their business. Ha. If I want to die, it’s my choice. Just like it’s my choice if I want to fuck or bleed or write bullshit down for people to read. But it’s all for me, always has been. It’s so I feel better…. I’m just so tired of a world that feigns ignorance, that screams about anger when they don’t even take the time to understand what they speak of. Who is the selfish person, the one who dies, or the person who begs the other to live when it is nothing but pain? I’ve said this before, but I don’t care. Selfishness is a matter of perspective.

We’re our own saviors. I’m my own personal jesus. There’s no one that’s going to die in my name, or walk through the bowels of this hell for me. But I would, for me. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, now would I? This is about living for yourself, accepting that no one else is reason enough to stick around for. You live for you, or not at all. To live for someone else is nothing but a bastardization of life and what it’s meant to be: enjoyment and lots of pain. Only for yourself, always for yourself.  People will come and go, but you will always remain.

Finding normal.

It’s nice when I reach equilibrium again. It doesn’t mean it’s over, but it means I finally can get some rest. I had a very bad spell there, one that hurt more than usual. It’s just days of an aching sorrow and loneliness that  hate. And no matter what I do, it won’t go away until it’s through with me. But it’s through. For now.

If I had a ‘normal’, this would be it. Somewhere between hateful and numb, with a constant desire to be alone. Needing other people around is an idea that is almost alien to me; when I get pangs for that it comes as a total shock. It makes me want to die more than anything else, because it means that I haven’t shed all of this humanity like I thought I had. Then there are times like this where I feel like the power is electrifying; I need nothing. I am back to knowing that no one matters, and being alone is always best. It’s meant for me. It feels insanely perfect sometimes.

I’ve been doing bad things. Things I shouldn’t do. But there is nothing to focus on now but the shell that I live in, the sad little world that happens to belong to me. This truly is mine, more than anything else. I think at times, the fact that I am in control of this one thing, pulls me through when nothing else could. I know that it is not all left to everybody else.

I slept until three thirty today. I woke, and my room was so dark from the black curtains that I thought it might be five. It’s funny, but I feel relief when I know that means fewer hours to be awake. It means sleep is coming sooner than usual, night will be quick to overtake everything.

I won’t have to worry, because everyone will be asleep soon and I’ll be all alone again. Just like yesterday, just like the day before that. Small little reprieves to keep me sane for awhile longer. Such a cruel trick.

Useless Cause.

I hate the mood swings that I go through. It just doesn’t stop; likes to run me all ragged and tease me with a few days of feeling better than deathly. Then it comes back, proves me wrong again, that no, I can’t have the normal other people get to have. I can think postively, I can focus on what I enjoy, but it all comes flooding back. I remember that this is only temporary, the feeling is only temporary. When I go to sleep in the morning, there will still be that hollowness, then the deep, burning hate that lies beneath it. I always hope that when I wake again it will be gone, but it never is. It stays. It’s there even when I choose to block it out.

I’m back to sleeping more than being awake. I keep taking naps in the middle of the day, because I am so bored and depressed. And it’s stupid. I shouldn’t just let it have me like that, but it’s been so long and I am getting more and more tired. If I have a lower day than usual, I sleep in hopes that when I wake I will feel a little better. Sometimes it works, sometimes I wake up and wish that I didn’t. Part of me always wishes I didn’t. I don’t know what I’m doing here besides taking up space and waiting to die or suffer in some unimaginable way. I want me to suffer; if I do then maybe I’ll wake myself up from the nightmare and stop being so complacent toward it. There must be something I want, somewhere. Some ridiculous little idea I came up with in an unconscious place that keeps telling me to live.

It doesn’t matter though. It never did. I’ll keep living, or I won’t. It’s the only thing in my existence right now that I really can make a choice about, something I find rather sad. I’m not powerless, but I have fallen into that mindset, like there is nothing I can do. Like I’m dying and I can’t stop it, the inevitable decay.

At the end of the day, I hope I rot, and I hope it fucking hurts.

Life: the irritating, sing-song merry-go-round.

I don’t know what I’m doing, I honestly don’t. And I don’t care. Even the urge to die has tapered off lately. I’ve become this obsessive, pleasure-seeking thing. Not that it is bad—I think anything is an improvement, if I’m truthful. I’m nothing when I’m numb, and I want to die when my depression hits its peak, but right now all I want to do is anything that is different than the stagnation I expose myself to.

I’m not even worrying anymore. The guilt about not working is slowly dying away. I guess I’m hitting that “blind acceptance” point, because I’ve realized that I’ve done all I can do for now and I’ll just have to wait. I keep selling my useless shit online, like a fucking hobby. All the bullshit that used to mean something to me is now just trash. Things that I treasured no longer have that sacred value they used to have. Now I couldn’t care less if they are gone from my life.

I don’t know if this is permanent or just temporary. But I suppose at the moment all I want is something that isn’t exactly the same as everything that has happened before. If that means purging the old self, then fine. Oh well. It’s not like anyone would miss her. I’ve been holding onto that memory a little too long, I think.

When I get money I’m going to spend it. I’m going to spend it and not care. Because there is nothing to care about anymore. There’s second to second and nothing else. It’s all just a game that is long past being fun, long past meaning anything important. I don’t want it, so what does it matter?

The future is the past. It is the same thing. Why do I keep hoping for something different when I know that I’m running the same track over and over? You can’t suddenly wake up and expect things to get better, can you? It would be like asking the night not to come or the sun not to rise. It’s going to happen; there is no stopping it. I fight something that is inconsequential, and I smile at my own stupidity.

Nice or sinister? With some people, their smiles are difficult to read.

Yesterday I went to a city a few hours from here. They have a huge mall, something that is fairly non-existent in the area I live in, so I thought there was a good possibility I might find something interesting. Like I said some posts ago, I’ve been searching for boots. It was also just an excuse to get out, and my mom loves to go driving to new places, so it worked out.

I never did find my boots, though I got more useless clothes as a buffer for my depression. No, it doesn’t work, except for the first five minutes. Afterward, meaning today, I regretted some of my purchases. I actually would throw some of them in the trash in frustration, but then it really would be useless, now wouldn’t it? Doesn’t that sound like something a spoiled little child would do? Throw things away in a fit of rage? Hm. For some reason that still does nothing to quell the thoughts. I buy things on impulse; I hate it when I do that. I already took the tags off; no taking it back. It’s too far away anyway.

We stopped at a surplus store on the way home. I walk in the door, wearing my old pair of boots. They’re ready to fall apart, but I don’t care. I immediately get cornered by some man I don’t recognize, and find him asking me too many questions for me to really recall. He gives some sort of comment on my boots, about liking them, etc. After I give an automated answer, I give him a sideways glance and stalk away, realizing that he’s not some random person, he works at the store. Maybe it’s okay then? I still thought he was a little overbearing, but given that I was in the perfume section at Macy’s only an hour earlier, with saleswomen circling me like vultures, I figure, hey, maybe he’s just nice and shrug it off.

I’m alone all of…a minute? If that. He’s back again. I’m examining a tactical vest and he’s saying, “Oh, you’re that kind of girl.” I mutter something about “just looking”, and he laughs. He tries to start yet another conversation, but I manage to get away after a few murmured answers. Now I’m starting to think something’s weird. There are other people in the store, so I’m hoping he’ll go bother them, as there is a huge boot section I need to investigate further.

Now if he was not around 50 years old, this wouldn’t have been as strange. I wander into the boots, glance around and realize there are no knee highs to be found. When I see used army and navy uniforms I make a beeline for the back of the store, and immediately start trying things on. Naturally everything is all out of order, so I have to sort through an entire rack to find my size. I see my mom moving through the displays, and end up showing her the things I’m looking at. Then he’s back again. Internally I groan. I know that I can’t tell him off, because I’m deeply considering buying something and I don’t want anything fucked up on account of my being a cold bitch.

He says something like “so that’s where you went”, as though he’s been looking for me. Now I’m getting not only uncomfortable, but more than a little irritated. I haven’t been without his presence for even five minutes. I release the jacket I’m about to try on when he says something about it looking good on me. I’m not at all in the mood to be examined. I grind my teeth at this point and my mom is not saying anything either, though we exchange a “what is with him?” glance.

This is when it gets into a conversation. He’s asking a bunch of questions again, and I just let my mom answer. Somehow we get on the topics of boots for a second time, and mom ends up telling him that was the reason we came to town. This is where it goes from mildly irritating to screaming in frustration. He keeps talking about how they don’t have any knee high boots but they might be able to order some. In order to get the the right sizing I’d have to try some on.

I confess, my social anxiety makes me want to curl up in a corner and die. I can’t stand trying things on in front of people, shoes or otherwise. It just makes me very uncomfortable, same thing with eating. I can’t eat in front of strangers. I pick at food, then wind up eating nothing. Strange, I know, but I’ve been that way since I was a child.

Thankfully he runs off to do whatever, and I stomp over to the jackets, hoping he’ll forget, though I know it will never happen. I never did find one of those jackets in my size, as I didn’t get all that much time to look.

Back he is again. I only tolerate all of it because I’m hopeful that there might actually be boots that I want in that stupid magazine. All of them are steel toed and lined for cold weather. The fact that they all seem to run upwards of $300 puts me off though. He comes back with a 7.5 when I told him an 8 or a 9 (they’re men’s shoes, so the sizing was all off for me), but I grudgingly try it on anyway, and barely manage to get my foot in. My toes are all smashed into themselves, so he goes and gets yet another. My mom is with me the entire time, like a protective bear—it makes me want to smile. 

I try on the new ones, and he just HAS to say something about my socks. The bottom part is covered in rainbow stars (don’t laugh…), which is fortunately all he can see. In actuality they are knee high with GIR from Invader Zim all over them. Another compliment comes that makes me want to throw the heavy shoe at him, but I smile benignly. What can you do? This time it was something about how I have style or some such bullshit. I was dressed like a preteen, wearing purple pants, combat boots, and a shirt with GIR and neon stripes on it. I had to change in the car from my “adult” clothes because it was so stiflingly hot, and because we had nowhere to go, I didn’t give a shit if I looked like crap. Now I know he’s just after something and I’m completely suspicious.

It gets weirder. I have to get wide shoes because I’m flat footed, and when I mutter it (becuase all of the shoes are narrow as fuck), he automatically pipes up that he is too. Oh yay. He lifts his hand up for a high five and I consider ignoring it. I’m too old for it, far too old. I went to college, I’m not 12. Then the more malicious, clever side tells me “could mean a discount if you treat him nice”. That’s all the encouragement I need, so I humor him.

The second shoe doesn’t fit either, so he steals my boot and tries to look for a difference. I’m kind of miffed because I hate people touching my things. My boots are sacred, more so than just about anything. I keep them impeccably clean, even in my messy room and from the sloppy, muddy roads.

Finally we go to the register to see this magazine, and he leaves us alone for a moment, not before introducing himself a SECOND time, and shaking my hand. This is the second time I’ve heard his name, and I still for the life of me, can’t remember what it was. I’m too busy trying to gauge the smile—what does it mean? The humanist wants to assume that he’s just one of those annoying, overly nice people that you sometimes want to club, but tolerate, due to the fact that you know only a jackass would crush such a optimistic moron with cruelty. But he’s touched me a couple of times, laying a hand on my arm, etc., so it’s boiled down to something being quite wrong. Too many red flags. He asks me my name, and I give it, then turn away. I guess I had a high tolerance for bullshit that day. Or maybe I just really wanted boots.

Of course, he isn’t gone forever. He comes back after we talk to the guy at the register about the shoes. They do have one type of knee highs that they’re going to check up on. There’s no hope though; there was no price. I’m sure they aren’t even going to be a whopping $300, but more in the $500-600 range. Still, we leave our number (something I later regret, though nothing has come of it…yet). Mom has already said we are in a hurry (we are both looking to get away from the place, though there are about a hundred unique things there that I’d love to buy), so we finally depart rather quickly.

We laugh about it in the car, discomfort gone. Yes…it was a little weird. I’m writing this all down so that I don’t relapse into thinking I’m crazy later. I keep doubting things that have happened; my memory has been completely shot lately.

About the boots, not that anyone would care, but if I come back and read this later I might want to know. I bid on some on ebay, but eventually gave up when they went to high. I’ve decided I want New Rocks, either the 161 or the 272. I was going to buy another pair of Demonias, but I’m finally facing up to the fact that I want what I want, and if I buy the ones I’ve been looking at from them, I’m merely settling (I already got the Reapers; they can’t make anything more impressive). Now I’m going to have to save up a good, solid $300 to cover them…. That $2oo more than I wanted to spend. Oh well. I guess I can save for it. At least that way I have something to look forward to when nothing else seems to get me interested.

I also might get a job in a few months where my dad works. They might be hiring soon, and they usually take employees’ kids no questions asked when they are short on staff (they always are during spring and summer). Might get me work for 6 months at least, so I can help my parents out with the bills—and of course, buy insanely expensive boots from Spain because I’m materialistic and don’t give a fuck about it. I guess I’m Jack today.

There’s nothing to do anymore but what brings a little bit of pleasure. There isn’t anything else. It’s all useless now, and I don’t want any of it.

White hot rage.

Another bad mood. It’s late and I’m faking. I’m not at home, but somewhere else. I’m still typing on my computer, but using someone else’s internet connection makes me exceedingly paranoid. This will be bare bones, no specifics.

Cowardice, I hate it. Hiding behind something seemingly benevolent in order to obtain what one wants. I do it as well, but I always make my intentions known on some level. If someone doesn’t read the signs, it is not my problem. I like to strike with warning, see what challenge I get for it. But some people are not that way and are cruel because they know no better. Not that cruel is a bad thing…. Not when it is done by someone who intends it wholeheartedly. And really, was it just plain meanness in this situation, I wouldn’t mind it.  Because I’d know said person was just an asshole, and it’s be perfectly okay.

I’m angry, but I’m also cold. I don’t know what I should be feeling right now. Part of me says “seek revenge”, another says “fuck it, doesn’t matter”. Instead I’m caught between the two. I don’t have enough of anything to muster up the emotions required. I’m just blank, with anger below the surface. It’s too far away to feel. And really, I think what pisses me off, is that it doesn’t matter, not really. The whole thing is petty. Maybe I am imagining it. Maybe I’m the idiot, the cosmic joke. I’m taking it too far, when it was in fact innocently meant. But yet, it never is.

Oh well. Nothing I can do now, right? Why is it just writing it down calms me? Maybe because I know there is not much to be done about it. Over and done with, I suppose. I’ll get over it. But not before I inflict my own cruelty, so passive agressively. It’s going to be difficult, but what isn’t? I always did like facing an impossible challenge. It gives me something to mull over rather than that idea of not having a future.

Goodnight.

There reaches a point…where it just isn’t worth it.

This is going to be very misanthropic, and honestly, I’m going to convince myself not to care. I always try to avoid going too far, revealing what I really think, but there’s just been too much going on lately for me to keep silent about it.

Life could be shitty, but nearly perfect, if there simply wasn’t anyone in my life. I realize that sounds like something an angsty teen would say, but the truth is, every problem that has been arising has been due to someone else’s negligence or lack of self control. I hate to lay the blame on other people; my own actions put me where I am today, I know that, that was all a result of my decisions. But what I don’t feel any regret about, is blaming someone for something they did do, that they did have control of.

I don’t want involvement with other people, on almost a holistic level. There are days where I don’t even want to watch television because I don’t want to see “normal” life, “normal” people. I don’t live “normal”. Chances are, when I wake up, I don’t know what time it is or what day of the week it is. I don’t care if tomorrow is election day, or if someone died yesterday. If it isn’t within my small scope of existence, in truth, it does not matter to me. Call it cruel, stupid, ignorant, whatever, but I do it for a reason: when I lived “normal” I couldn’t stand it. It drives me insane, and I mean that. It does something to my head, makes me stop ticking. It’s like being shut off, with an automated person taking over. I do things, but they don’t matter, I talk to others, and it doesn’t matter.

This life is based of off cooperation. It was designed that way. It’s not about the individual, no matter what people may try to sell you. I can’t escape having to interact. I can’t run away from my life without serious consequences.

I think there is a part of me that must need some sort of interaction at this point. That is why there’s this blog and a million other avenues through the internet that I constantly abuse. Secretly I keep believing that I’ll wake from my little nightmare. Perhaps that is why I haven’t burned all that many bridges. I keep thinking I might need them someday.

Someday? What day? I don’t even want to make it to 20. That was one of the main reasons I no longer attend college; I didn’t have a “foreseeable” future. I didn’t want to waste 3 years trying to earn a paper that I honestly…was never planning on using. And that’s the truth. I wasn’t sure I would be around another year. How do you say to your parents: “I don’t want you paying for my college because I don’t plan on living long enough to complete the degree, let alone use it”?

The point of this ridculousness, is that life was made so that it is about people interacting. We, as human beings, have made it this way not only out of ease, but preference. And I just fucking don’t want any part of it. I never really did. People are worthless, they fix nothing. They make me feel worse instead of better and further my hatred, so why bother? Any day I want, I can delete all that I’ve written. It can all be gone. I can turn it all off and never face it again, as though it never was. The great thing is, you can do that with your life too. Flip a switch and off it goes.