Friday, August 22, 2014


Sometimes it's hard to admit to yourself the things you really are. I have spent countless hours denying. Years trying to convince myself that it isn't, it couldn't possibly be true. The truth is I have no one. Alone. I am a defective human being. For as long as I could remember no one liked me. Born a pariah and will most likely die that way too. As a child, I had trouble connecting to others. Birthday parties, play dates...I was never invited. Every time I would gain a friend, undoubtedly I would lose them just as quick. Nothing has changed. The only friend I have now at almost thirty is my therapist. A person whom I pay to listen to my insignificant quandaries and neurotic musings. Pathetic is a vast understatement. My own dog hates me. Children I pass on the street look at me in the most perplexed way. I don't even know why I am writing this. No one is going to read this shit anyway. I am the most unremarkable person you will ever meet. I was told tonight that I am a piece of shit. I didn't argue or refuse to believe it. I already know it. I think a lot about what my purpose is and I can't muster up one answer. I used to think I could rely on my beauty if all else failed but now I am nothing but skin and bones existing on cigarettes and vitriol. Soon I will fade away and it will be exquisite. I won't care and neither will anyone else.

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