no. 15.10.06 12:53 p.m.
You know, I am going through one of the wosrt patches of my life right now. I can't even fully express how I feel. If I worte any of that here, I'd be up for criticism, scrutiny, arguments, pity; all things I want nothing to do with. If I write in a protected forum only, it kind of defeats the purpose - like hollering out to the whole assembly that you're going to tell a secret to just one of them, and the rest had better not listen. If I write in my notebook, it somehow makes me feel even less connected with the rest of the planet than I already do - aah, nothing better than heartbreak-inspired, self-absorbed alienation. (Barf.) (I tried the whole "go out with my notebook and write until I feel better thing," the other night, but I only wound up feeling resigned, like I was writing the same thing over and over.)
So, how do I express myself? Still unsure. I don't feel safe from anything right now. Things seem to go wrong once a week around here. I don't want to wallow in them, but I also feel like screaming myself hoarse about them. I want to beat him up to make him hurt like I do; I want to go postal on my former HR office for fucking me out of a student loan; I want to show up both the old lady and the young bitch who recently turned me down for jobs I was more than qualified for; I want to kick my roommate's cat for being such a nuisance; I want to punch every one of my friends in the mouth whenever they mention their significant other, the great sex they had, or the all the fun they get to enjoy because they are neither broke nor heartbroken. I want to get on every public forum, call every number in the phone book and humiliate him thouroughly, guarantee he'll never get laid again. I want to kick my former boss in the nuts as hard as I can because I might never have been in this position if not for him (he went crying home to his Mommy, too; seems to be a trend). I want to launch a nuclear assault on Italy, for breeding men I love and mothers like hydras, who suck the life out of anything that dare touch their precious little mamounes. I want to throw battery acid on my own face, because being pretty is worthless if I'm not a breeder and not a cogwheel. I want to burn down the infrastructure of Western society - how dare they tell me that as a woman, I can choose the life I want, when in reality, nobody will love me if I'm not a corporate whore? Sure, I'm the rebellious fuck, I'm the little lioness to be tamed, but am I worth loving for real? The kind of love that takes precedence over social standing and others' opinions and is willing to make compromises and doesn't shirk responsiblity and actually makes itself vulnerable to being loved? No, apparently not. Not even after ten years of hard work. Being pretty is worthless unless you aspire to being a trophy or a secret. Being smart and passionnate will only ever earn you pain. Reassurances mean nothing; they are lies intended to tide you over until you give in and conform. Heed my words, and never trust an Italian man.
That's the best I can do for now.
listening:
reading:
ingesting:
(see entries before 20.11.05)
previously on Smothered Hope:
unreal - 20.05.08
in which our narrator kinda just babbles on a bit - 15.05.08
drank several margaritas last night. they were great. - 04.05.08
spacey - 29.04.08
i will most definitely regret posting this in public - 28.04.08