Still can't think of a subject line
Jun. 14th, 2003 01:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mousmeMy life is awash with dead cats. Two on the way home from Vermont last weekend, another today driving home. Cat corpses littering the pavement, and now I can't stop crying. I thought I'd cause an accident... fuck humanity, our highways are paved with the blood of the innocent.
My life is out of fucking control again. Don't know where to turn, where to go, what to say. It's all a huge fucking mess.
Someone told me the other day that I was really talented at brooding, and I don't think they really meant anything by it other than a flippant comment, but now I can't help but wonder if that's all that I've become: a tired cliché that people make fun of. Just one of those lame girls who post in LiveJournal about how depressed they are and how they cut themselves and how shitty the world is.
God, I wish I had that kind of moralistic certainty in life: it would make things so much easier.
I don't want your fucking pity!
What would it accomplish if I cried and railed and beat my fists against the walls the walls of my mind and screamed: "It hurts in here! Let me out! It fucking hurts! LetmeoutletmeoutletmeOUT!" All that's left is to sink down on the floor and sob until my head throbs, curled up in a ball in the corner, tucked away behind a misfiring synapse and wait for everything to shut down.
Turns out it's myself I hate, not my job or anything else. Just me. I hate what I've become, but I don't know how to be anything else. So how do you escape that, smartass?
My life is out of fucking control again. Don't know where to turn, where to go, what to say. It's all a huge fucking mess.
Someone told me the other day that I was really talented at brooding, and I don't think they really meant anything by it other than a flippant comment, but now I can't help but wonder if that's all that I've become: a tired cliché that people make fun of. Just one of those lame girls who post in LiveJournal about how depressed they are and how they cut themselves and how shitty the world is.
God, I wish I had that kind of moralistic certainty in life: it would make things so much easier.
I don't want your fucking pity!
What would it accomplish if I cried and railed and beat my fists against the walls the walls of my mind and screamed: "It hurts in here! Let me out! It fucking hurts! LetmeoutletmeoutletmeOUT!" All that's left is to sink down on the floor and sob until my head throbs, curled up in a ball in the corner, tucked away behind a misfiring synapse and wait for everything to shut down.
Turns out it's myself I hate, not my job or anything else. Just me. I hate what I've become, but I don't know how to be anything else. So how do you escape that, smartass?