Ever feel like you're just the sum of your own abilities? As if that's the only thing that makes you worth anything to anyone? Like people see what you do, how well you do it, and how this can somehow benefit them? As if it makes no difference who you are, what kind of person you are, or whether or not you're actually a person at all? Welcome to my world.
I have to admit though, I have a habit of feeding in to it, for lack of better options I think. Always with the "You want to see the pictures I just took?" and the "Do you want to hear the song I just recorded?" and the "Have you seen my website? I designed it myself".... "You want to hear what happened to me last night? It was so crazy!" on and on... because I'm aware that this is the only way to get people to talk to me. I have to entertain them. Most of them aren't even aware that I'm an actual person; I just fill a role. The only reason I'm not replaced is because I'm just so good at it; the sum of my own fucking abilities.
How well I sing, how well I write, how well I can tell a story, how well I take photographs, how well I fuck, how well I come up with creative ideas... and I'm just so fucking pretty to look at. It makes me want to vomit. (I'd like to do something drastic like shave off my eyebrows, but I need to keep my job. Maybe face piercings... I can always take those out for work.)
In my entire life, only one person has ever told me that I was a good friend. People don't confide in me, nor do they allow me to confide in them. I go through everything alone because let's face it, no one likes to be out in the rain, and it's not worth getting soaking wet just for me. It really doesn't matter that I have someone's back. It doesn't matter because no one sees it. They don't ever remember. People only notice when I stop doing things for them, and then they only see it as me going out of my way to be cruel to them. Go fuck yourselves.
I am angry with so many different people for so many different reasons, including myself. Not all of this is recent by the way. This is years worth of anger. Most of these people don't even know. How could they? Only a real person has feelings, and I'm apparently some sort of robot programed to entertain them; the sum of my own abilities. I'm thinking about falling off the face of the earth.
...and if I have to hear someone talk abut stabbing one more time I swear I don't know what I'll do. Smiling when you say something doesn't make it funny, especially when you're making fun of a horribly traumatic situation. Asking someone to retell something awful that happened to them after they've been asked to tell it over a million times, does not help that person "get it off their chest". It actually just forces them to continue reliving it. Thanks a lot.
I want to go someplace where no one knows who I am, so they wouldn't know enough to ask these questions in the first place. Show me a face I don't know, and let them learn who I am, not what I do or did. Unfortunately, I realize the first thing people always ask when they meet someone is "So, what do you do?" and now that I've said that I realize that I never ask people this question; maybe to avoid being asked myself or maybe because it's a bullshit question and there are far more important things to ask. (It's similar to asking "How are you?". No one really cares how you are, but asking makes one look thoughtful. All you are expected to say is "good" or "fine", not to tell how you are actually doing. It's a well rehearsed dance we all do, that I fucking hate. It's a bullshit question.)
"Smile! No one cares how you feel." (The Gothic Archies)
My life has become one distraction after another. If I dwell, I can't heal. So I have to continue distracting myself with a new whatever, one after the other in hopes that nothing from my past will pop up again. It always does, by the way. Not to mention this constant "moving on" really is just moving on to new problems to heap onto the pile of old ones. (They're always somehow related, because everyone knows everyone else, and she heard this thing from him that he heard from that other guy, and "Oh, you're
that girl." Yes, I'm that girl. It's like locking the door to the closet full of skeletons, but everyone has a fucking key.) But if I dwell, I can't heal, so what the fuck am I supposed to do, then?
Whatever, I'm hungry.
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