So….fuck.
Wanna call me out for being a bitch, whore, wimp, or any of that shit? Go ahead, I don’t really care. If you’re just gonna try and rain on my parade, do yourself a favor and stop reading. Now.
Just when I thought that ya know, things might actually be starting to get a little better, the shit hits the fan. Instead of those glorious three steps forward, I take five back. A friend of mine, who I’ve stuck with through many girlfriends, jobs, and I don’t even wanna know what else, carelessly tossed me to the side as if we had met maybe yesterday. Alright, whatever happens, happens. I’m a big girl, I can handle getting a few cuts and scrapes; however, what I can’t handle is them strolling right back into the middle of my life as if nothing happened. I can’t handle the scab being slowly ripped off constantly. I just can’t handle the fake caring…ironic, isn’t it?
Whatever happens, happens. I’ve lost friends before, and I’ll continue to do so as long as I roam these shallow grounds. Grades, they’ve always been shit, nothing new there. But emotions, aren’t they just a little package of “fun”? Irony at it’s finest right here again. I cannot express myself well, and when it seems like I can, it’s never an accurate expression. How the hell do I cope then? I bottle. I bottle so much, that I could put major soda companies out of their jobs for looking like amateurs. But no worries, with those bottles comes a handy-dandy mask to wear so that nobody can tell. Oh, but guess what … those bottles are glass, and they’re slowly shattering, unleashing the hell and fury that can only relate to that of Pandora’s box. Well… crap. If the bottles aren’t there, then surely the masks can’t exist, believe me, I’ve noticed; and, apparently so has everybody else. Auto-pilot came out to play, and now it thinks it’s here to stay. What a pity. Ya know what that means don’t ya? My dad wants me to see someone now, so he’s looking for a therapist. That shouldn’t be a bad thing, and I’m not trying to say that the fact that I’m gonna have to talk to someone is bad. What I’m getting at is, I’m tired of being fucked up and having absolutely no clue as to WHY. I guess that’s what so and so’s gonna be paid for though, right? Yeah, no worries. Yeah right.
Oh and we can’t forget the fairy-tale relationship I’ve had going for … a little over two months now. Yeaaaahhh. That’s just GREAT. Peachy-keen if you ask me, but I’d be lying. Great guy, don’t get me wrong - I love him to death … but honestly, it’s hard enough fighting severe genetic depression with an extreme alcoholism twist on there without a blue boyfriend who likes to be a little more than tipsy on a good number of weekends. Did I mention, that I’m an especially bad girlfriend who won’t give enough attention or affection? Yeah. Well. There’s that too. So, if you have the option to date me, pass.
Scratch that, if you have the option to get to know me in any form what-so-ever, including just a passing hello or smile, pass - it’ll be better for the both of us.
No worries, don’t worry about me. I’ll continue down the same path whistling the constant tune in my head with my guitar in hand.
