It's pathetic really. I know why I am in this mood, but I can't get out of it for at least three days. Meh. Who gives a fuck?
I've got $10 to my name. Even when I get paid in five days, I'll still have nothing to my name. I owe Clay, Grandpa, Jess, Paula, Mandy, Freddie Mac, Sallie Mae, PSO, Peter, and Paul every dime that I'll earn for the next 60 years.
The only things I own mean nothing to anyone else. No one wants a tailless dog and a shoebox apartment in the hood...Hell, even the apartment doesn't technically belong to me. That's, of course, in his name...
Basically, all I've got is roaches. I don't want those either, but I've got them.
It's pathetic. Even the roaches are less lonely than myself. At least they have friends...Fucking millions of friends.
Blame isn't something I can place on another. The whole ordeal is my fault. My depression deepens with each hour. There was a time I could drown it, but the monster can swim now. I've learned nothing and I've only succeeded in being exactly where I was pre-him.
Blame is all mine...Yet, I blame him. I blame my sister. I blame everyone else, but myself even though it is apparent that doing so is illogical.
I'm not fooling anyone. I can't write worth a fuck. I want to be Chris Rose or Anthony Bourdain. As much as I loathe Stephenie Meyer*, at lease that bitch has duped millions of Americans into buying her shitty novels.
I can't think anymore. I am so embarrassed about where I am working that I won't even tell anyone. I am in such a hole. I doubt every step I take. I worry about what HE would think if he could see the apartment...if he could see the weight I've gained....If he could see that the Christina he once loved died when he left.
It won't ever be over. Cutting it off would be like New Orleans without Second Line, Mardi Gras, and Gumbo...I would surely die.
It doesn't matter. I pick up the keyboard in hopes of creating some grand masterpiece, but only this comes out.
I can't sleep. I need a drink, but I am not doing that right now. Self-control is something I am going to learn the hard way.
Blahs. Fuck this. I am going to lie (lay? See? I suck.) back down and hope that I don't cry....Hope that, for once, I can sleep without him and without alcohol.
*Who fucking spells their name like that anyways? The bitch can't even spell her name and she's better off than I.
2 comments:
You think a Mormon who is so fucked up about sex her female protagonist has HER BACK BROKEN BY WHILE GIVING BIRTH is better off that you? I doubt it. She may be richer, but trust me,she is NOT happier. I mean Anne Rice, look at what happened to that chick. Think being a bestselling author helped her out? No way.
Success does not de facto equal happiness. And often success people are the loneliest for a variety of different reasons.
The thing is don't measure yourself to others. Everyone is on their own path. Some people know what they want from the time they are 2, others don't realize it until they are 50. It's easy to measure yourself against people who are currently successful and think "How am I not like him/her?" But as Sophocles wrote, (I'm gonna paraphrase)" Judge no man's luck until he is dead because until then his luck can change." Just because you aren't where you want to be now doesn't mean you won't get to where you want soon. And ultimately you can be a lot happier than that Twilight person because, again, you're not a fucked up mormon.
Yay for not being a fucked up Mormon! I had no idea that happened in that book because I've never read it. meh.
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