Silent Scream

The thing is, no one cares.

And even if I were to tell anyone, it's not as if anything would change. It'd just be a momentary discomfort, and some added paranoia, perhaps. Nothing even really happened, but I think I wouldn't feel so bad about it if I could tell someone, anyone. But the few people I've tried to tell have ignored me, and I can't even post here.

I'm So Sick of Being Tired

I think the most tragic thing one can be depressed about is what-ifs. 

You know exactly what I mean- those fleeting possibilities of the future that seem so wonderful, but can't happen for whatever reason. Breaking up with a girl/boyfriend, and knowing that you could've made it. Taking up a job offer, but maybe you would've climbed the corporate ladder at the other? And sometimes it's not even that specific. Just a vague, general understanding of all the things you'll never have. 

I had a faint idea beforehand, but today I finally realized what's going to break my heart the most about moving in a year. 

The what-ifs. 

Peachy Insomnia

Please, disregard the previous post.
Forget the previous post.
Ignore the previous post.
Please, shove the previous post into the drawer of your mind that typically houses particularly embarrassing memories.

(You're probably assuming my intentions to be completely different then in reality, however it'd be the best if I don't even attempt to clarify why I'm asking you to disregard it. Also, although I could always just delete it, I have this odd mental obligation not to delete posts on here. Not 100% sure why~)

I've said sometimes, maybe even frequently, that I'm tired.
That's a half-lie.

Sleeping Beauty Clobbering her "Prince"

I give up.

I do. I give up.

I give up on daydreams and Prince Charmings and happily-ever-afters. I've always kind of berated myself for considering those ideals anyway, but never enough to stop my subconscious from dreaming of "The One". I could hate myself for it, but I could never really stop fantasizing- don't all girls? We want something perfect, something solid in our chaotic worlds of hormones and emotions and uncertainty. We want something we can never get, and it only ever ends in decent guys trying their bests, and failing spectacularly.

But there aren't even enough decent guys! Just boatloads of assholes, douchebags, womanizers, etc. etc. They never even try to fit that ideal, and for good reason: Women want unattainable perfection, in the same way, I suppose, that men do. They all want their respective perfect fantasy women- typically reminiscent of Victoria's Secret "Angels". But hey, to each their own and all that.

Thumbprint to the First Knuckle

There is an entire list of people I want to punch, a majority of which on my elder sister's behalf, because she's too ridiculously nice to ever do so. Of course, I could very well suffer terrible consequences, "physical assault" charges or whatever, but I swear, one day I will just get in a car, drive from work place to house to apartment to park, and punch these people all in a row.

My sister and I have an interesting relationship, I think. I'll do something or ignore her or say something to get her mad at me, and then for the majority of the day we'll skirt around each other, until tomorrow, when we end up happy again.

(We both suck at holding grudges)

But sometimes when we're in the midst of a fight, something else will happen.

She'll get sad.

My Forced Distance from What I Call Society

Oh, but am I a hypocrite.

I think I've mentioned it before, but I'm so hypocritical, I occasionally contemplate introducing myself as "Hello, I'm a hypocrite."

Truly.

That bad.

So it's not entirely surprising that I tend to bemoan my lack of close acquaintances, when I distance myself from a good number of people. It's not as if I hate all people, or just hate social interaction. Nope, nothing like that. It's just. . . Well, I'm not sure what it is, or really how to explain it, I'll be honest here. I'm just fickle and contrary and extremely hormonal. And sometimes I really just wish that life were novel, or that I could fall into printed words.

A Digital Pandora's Box, Where Hope is a Blog Comment

Cover Girl could make millions of dollars on a memory concealer. Or maybe Apple could copyright a memory USB. Just stick it in, put some memories in it and poof! You don't remember them until you want to. I say this, because I have (again) neglected this blog. And when I checked back and re-read my entries, lets just say my own little Pandora's box of pain got flung open again.

However, I actually have a follower. Which is a pleasant surprise. And, to reply to your comment Ms. Claire Valene Bagley, I suppose this is supposed to be secret. In some sense of the word, anyway.