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.