I’ve been going through a lot lately,
… but not just lately, for a while. I feel myself slipping, and when I talk to my psych on Tuesday she might ask why I didn’t come in earlier. It’s because doing things is hard, that’s why I sleep most of the time.
I wish I was more, so that I didn’t disappoint my parents so often. I don’t ever wish myself non-poetic, but I do wish I could take my trauma more seriously. Every time I think of something upsetting or of any type of inconvenience, I invoke a subconscious urge to make my sentences rhyme, or have some or other form of poetic device. Alliteration is easy, but good alliteration is not. Enjambment is one of my favourite tools, because it means I don’t need to pace myself. I don’t know if this paragraph is poetic. I never read what I wrote. Reading is for losers; I write.
I have a bunch of conversation lines, like the previous sentence, I have stored up in the front of my mind for easy access. They’re what I consider to be fun little titbits into my life or my way of thinking. Last Wednesday I got to use lots of them in a conversation duel, aka speed-dating game. I don’t like thinking about why I do certain things, like take part in that. I have given up on dating for the time-being. I want more friends, and in the back of my mind I am so happy that I invited so many people and that so many of my friends showed up.
A hypocritical point I have is that I want them to be happy, and if that happiness can be found in another person then we’ll meet as many people as necessary. But I don’t want that for me. I don’t consider myself special, but I do think I’m built different. I don’t want someone else to bring me happiness.
Ritter said something along the lines of, “Girls are stupid. They only want you for your money. The ones I meet only want me for my looks.” I replied, “But that means you’re attractive and exciting.” “Nah,” he went on. “Attractive, maybe. But I’m actually really boring, and when they learn that they leave.”
Peter Pan said that “everyone leaves”.
I am so tired of being tired and having to fight myself every day to do something.
But there’s hope still. Constantly, hope.
I wish I had more opportunities to see my friends, but I am bad at organising things. I miss you all.
I remember when 400-words were enough to get what I wanted to say across, but the less I know what I actually want to say, the more words I need.
I’m taking part in a drag race this coming Wednesday. I don’t particularly like dressing in drag, but I do like winning and attention.
I do feel like I need to see a therapist soon. I worry too much about others, and not enough about myself.
“…and I know I need help, but not before I say what needs to be said.”
I wish I had the willpower to write more. It makes me happy, which is nice,
Because rarely anything does these days.
-Charlton, 14 April 2019