I don’t really know how it started. They say it’s my “inability to connect emotionally with others”. I guess that’s true, it’s just so much better inside myself. Others aren’t like me, they overhype everything, like that pregnant 6th grader. I mean, this rumor at my school, my high school, that a 6th grader was pregnant. People kept saying it, like it was funny or something. Of course it’s not true, some little cunt made it up of course. And im not defending anyone, it’s just true. People think I’m edgy, a hipster. That would have made me pretty darn happy back when I cared, but now I just don’t have a use for labels. I’m arrogant. I really am. But that’s not my problem. My problem is people, really. They have evolved into this ignorant species, far beyond any hope of salvation. All the trouble in my life started when I was born. That was a joke. But really I guess I just never knew who I was. It’s like I just float in this body, I guess you could say I like to reinvent myself, except for I get really excited about it for a while then I get real sick of it real quick. It’s like crying for me. That’s how I cry. I don’t know why I cry, I don’t do it often but whenever I do it I feel stupid and stop. But anyways it’s like all the fucking clichés of teenagers who are finding themselves, like a damn movie. Except my movie would just be me eating a lot and watching Netflix .I blame it mostly on the boys. The ones who never look at me that is. No but really it’s like I missed out the class where you learned how to not be invisible. Actually, I have a great personality, no shit. This politician told me one time when I shook his hand. But just because I’m not outgoing and I don’t make fun of people, I’m irrelevant to the masses. The masses being my lovely peers. And I don’t know I guess it sucks sometimes. I have a couple friends, but it’s like they don’t know me at all, I swear. I know their goddamn life stories, could write a biography, no shit. Have to act like I care about them and everything. Honestly I don’t care if most of the people in my life live or die. Sorry. But like all they know is I’ll do anything they ask, like that’s a fair trade for friendship. I feel so alone, and anxious. I’m really quite nervous, you know? It’s not that I need friends really, but sometimes you want someone to stick around, even when you tell them to go. Except that sort of stuff really makes me sick, a friend like the ones in movies, so corny. Like it’s so tacky to be friends with someone, it really is. I think people were made to be on their own. If they really were meant to be this “superior race”, something went wrong, terribly so. I’m quite 1950s. In that I really suppress anything that’s wrong, a housewife with a beehive hairdo and pink polish. Except the housewife is anorexic, or hits her kids, or does meth. She doesn’t tell anyone because it’s the 1950s, dammit. That’s me. Except in the 2000s shits all inverted. Like everyone has a problem they so need to talk about. Except for the people with real problems. They just die quietly. But my real problems aren’t so bad I guess. It’s just people got me thinking, this world isn’t really worth living for someone like me. A singular life really isn’t a bad price to pay for a good cause. The cause of course, is the fact that society is a fucked up place, and an intellectual like myself ought not to be subjected to this nonsense. So I fucked up pretty bad, some crazy shit involving a bottle and a half of Nyquil. Involving my parents finding me on the bathroom floor at 6 in the morning, when I was supposed to be waking up for school. So yeah, unfortunately I’m still alive, except with the added label of “psycho”. Who in the world would really know my struggle? I can’t even put it into words sometimes.
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