I don’t even want to write but I suppose that I must because I can’t sleep.

I wish that I was someone else. I wish I was dumb and pretty and extremely popular. I want blond hair blue eyes and a fucking pony.

Okay, hold the pony. That was just self-mockery. I hate who I am because I hate all of the things that other people hate about me. (Lusty hate what a boring emotion.) I hate people like me who complain the way I’m complaining now. Ergo, I hate myself. Lovely. Now change. That’s the answer.

I can’t change some things. Well, I could stop swearing. That would make me seem more pleasant. I could stop writing unpleasant things on the sidewalks and I could buy more pink sweaters. But, honestly, I think I look like a fool whenever I try to come across as nice. I look like an ape in a wig. It’s amusing isn’t it?

You know, I said that I wished I was dumb, but that oughtn’t be such worry for me. I’m at best clever. I’m not particularly intelligent. Dog-like cleverness, the kind that breaks into garbage cans and steals biscuits, that’s what I’ve got. Anything I do that seems intelligent is just posing. I am the most superficial person I know.

That wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t so unattractive. My hair is short my body’s short and so is my nose. It all goes nowhere. No one has ever said to me “You have such a beautiful face” but I get a lot of attention for my ass. Well, I’m lucky I guess. No one has everything.

I’m really starting to become a little impatient with people. I’ve always tried to give everyone a chance. To help them to see that I’m not so bad, really and to try to see if they aren't so bad. But, I’m getting sick of it. Why do I have to work so hard? I mean, people look right through me all the time. I say “hello!” and they ignore me. I smile and they just look away. Then some asks “Why are you so sullen?” I’m sick of getting bit, that’s why. I’m sick of reaching out to people and being left hanging. I’m sick of being the second choice. The girl you’ll date if that better one doesn't work out. I feel like trash, like leftovers, like stale bread, like meat not fit for the dogs.

I am healthy. I’m strong. I work out, I read, I exercise my mind and body. I try to learn about the world, and to make little contributions when I can. I always ask “can I help?” and if I’m asked to help I hardly ever say no. I think a lot of my self. Yes, I’ll say it: I’m proud of myself. But, I must not be doing enough. I must not be clever enough or strong enough because I’m still the same person. I don’t want to have to live my whole life being this person. I look in the mirror and I see a monster, no, not a monster. That’s too grand. (That might even be good!) I see a troll, a humorous, harmless, ugly, little creature that would do well to scrub the floors and say thank you for its bread.

Thank you.