FicWad

What am I? I am not a beautiful and unique snowflake. I am the same decaying matter as everyone else. I sometimes like to think that I have qualities that separate me from other people. I bet I'm wrong half of the time. What if there is someone out there just like me? I mean, with 6 billion people in the world, there has to be someone almost exactly like me.

My parents are divorced. I live with my mom. My friend told me that the reason I go so far for the attention of boys is because I don't know what it's like to really have a dad. I mean, I see him about five times a year, but that isn't enough. They got divorced when I was five. He's not a bad person. Him and my mom just never got along. I think I'm an accident. You know? I don't think that I'm the only kid who feels this way. Like, if they were having issues, why would they have kids? And yeah, they were having a bad time before I was born. I shouldn't blame my own raging insecurities on my parents, but what else can I do? Blame them on myself? I've been like this for as long as I can remember.

I'm afraid that I'm going to go crazy. Like, I mean totally out of control.

I'm really really clingy to my friends. Friend. I really have like, one person who I can talk to, and she has her own issues that she has to deal with. Who am I to impose my own?

Issues can be defined by the culture in which one is living in. Welcome to a very suburbon area in Virginia. I don't want to say where. Damn stalkers. But it's a nice area. Pretty diverse. I'm an only child living with my mom. That doesn't really narrow anything down. She's a good mom. Most of the time. She thinks my makeup is ugly. But then again, my friends think it's alright. I think. I get told I'm pretty. But, you know, one's mother constantly imposing the thought that I'm not is going to mess me up.

Once again, not blaming her. Just thinking on paper. This is the only way of letting things out that I can think of.

I like writing and reading. Too bad I'm too scared to really let anyone I know read what I write. Everyone has a guilty pleasure. At least I don't drink or do drugs. Alright, time for the first cuss word of the...what is this? An essay? Sure. Lets go with that. First cuss of the essay. I fucking hate drugs and alcohol.

If I die sober, I will die in perfect happiness. I don't need substances to have fun. No one does. Nothing is so bad. I will not associate with people who do shit like that. Second cuss. I'm so bad. Hah. Whenever I think about my friends some day doing drugs or drinking, I feel really sick. Like, ready to puke. It's really intense. If I don't stand for anything else, I stand for absolute sobriety.

Maybe this stand against substances is because my dad was an alcoholic and I just found out about it. And drugs just scare the shit out of me. I lose respect for anyone who does them. That's the quickest way to make me lose respect for someone. That and keeping secrets from me.

That's another thing. For some really stupid reason, I can't stand it when people keep things from me. It drives me crazy. Absolutely nuts. I get angry. Really, really angry. Like I want to physically hurt something. To yell and scream. And I know it isn't right. That's the worst part. I know exactly what is wrong with me - I think. I know when I am being unreasonable. So I make my face a mask. A mask that hides my face. A face that hides the pain. A pain that eats my heart. A heart nobody knows.

Emo. Right? That last bit was from a play I did once. I thought it worked. I really do think that I'm crazy inside. Sometimes it slips out. And I just have to scream. But that happens when I'm alone. I feel bad for my pets. They are probably scared of me because of my yelling to myself.

My friend is scared that I'm going to go crazy because I don't think anyone likes me and then kill myself.

It's not an unreasonable fear. I mean, I probably wouldn't ever kill myself, but I could easily distance myself from everyone. Burning bridges is a form of suicide, right?

I'm a size 10. Apparently I don't look it. I've been told I look like Avril Lavigne. Yeah...a fat Avril Lavigne.

Alright. Not fat. Not...fat exactly. Because I know how to dress myself. I spend a lot of time on my appearance. Lots of hair and makeup to be done. What can I say? I paint my face to hide my face.

Sometimes I like to think that I help people. I cut my friend's hair once. He says he likes it. I hope he isn't lying.

You know what? I'm afraid of committment. Like, really, really afraid. That and pregnancy. I'm so afraid of pregnant people, being pregnant. Hence why I will probably remain a virgin for god knows how long. By the way, I'm agnostic. So I use the word "god" loosely. Lowercase. Not uppercase. Playing it safe.

The very second I find out that a boy I maybe like likes me, my emotions leave me. It's the weirdest thing. I've been told it's normal, but...well, I don't know.

I had a psychiatrist once. Back when I was twelve or thirteen. Twelve probably. That was a rough patch in my life. I changed a lot at one point, but I'm slowly slipping backwards. I want my psychiatrist again, but my Mom won't let me. Maybe I should talk to my Mom about how I really need someone to talk to. To help me and be unbiased.

I'm still in highschool. Hence why I sound like an insecure teenage girl. Why? Because I am! Crazy!

I don't have any problem with admitting my faults. I'm over critical of everyone and tend to be mean. I try to temper my meanness with reason, but that just makes me cold.

I like hugs. I like physical contact, just casual contact that one expects on a daily basis. A hug, a pat on the back, the usual. I really really really crave physical affection. Something. Anything. And it probably isn't the best idea to be best friends with someone who can't stand to be touched by anyone. But what can I do? No one is perfect. She's there for me, I like to think.

I am slowly running out of things to say.

Oh! I'm obsessive. Well, not totally. Just little things. Like text messages. One word answers make me feel unworthy. Like I don't mean enough. Unreasonable, right? Yeah. If I send a message like "OMG BB I MISS CHUUU!" and I get an "thanks" my mood instantly plummets. Oh. That's right. I am that pathetic. Laugh it off. I know you want to.

I like to act. I'm only good at being hella creepy though. I'm not that funny. My eyes are too small to be seen from stage. No, I am not Asian. I want to be a really good actress during my high school career, because I feel like it's something that I can do. Like something that I can maybe succeed at. I want my friends to come to the plays I'm in and actually watch me.

I can see when they aren't. That pisses me off. Because I feel like...I've worked so hard. Why are my own friends not paying attention to me? Because I suck? Do I suck? I know I'm not the best thing to look at on stage. My skin is so pale that it reflects the stage lights and probably makes viewing me a painful experience. I wish people would get over it. Or that I would be able to tan. And fake tans don't work. I look orange with them.

I really really like music. I like to sing and to listen to it, and I wish I could play an instrument. And my voice isn't anything too great, by my standards. No one has ever really heard me when I'm actually putting effort into it.

When I'm alone, I go a little crazy. Like I said before. I think I'm going crazy. I don't know what to do. I go stir crazy. Now that I have my licence, maybe I'll have some more freedom to let out my emotions, but it's hard. It's just so damn hard to know that I have it so easy, and yet still have my own personal problems.

My home is secure. No money problems. No abuse, nothing extroidanary. Just average teenage life. It sucks, to have nothing to blame for your problems.

It's maddening.

It's like: Why am I so messed up? Cheer up! Nothing is wrong!

Oh. But there is.

There is something wrong inside of me. In my mind. I'm so emotionally starved. I'm starving inside. I try to fill it with other people, but nothing seems to quench my thirst. What is affection? To me, it is something as simple as kind words. A happy greeting. I'm easy to please. It's not so hard. The only problem is that I think I scare people away. I think that people are afraid that I don't want any affection. It sucks. I can't just wear a sign around my neck declaring my want for physical contact.

Unless I wore, like, a "Free Hugs" shirt. I should probably get one of those.

Someday I think I'd like to be a photographer. But my dreams and aspirations change so often. Like the seasons. Back when I was eleven or twelve, I wanted to be a herpitologest. Like, a person who studies reptiles. Not anymore. Then I wanted to be a psychologist. Not anymore. Then a musician. Now a photographer. Or maybe a clothing designer.

I don't want to stop writing this. I feel like it is really important that I get my words out there. That I say my piece.

I'm just really tired and I should probably sleep. But I can't. If I wake up tomorrow morning and suddenly don't feel like writing this, I'm screwed.

My creativity comes and goes.

I wrote a story once. It was about a girl in the seventeen hundreds and vampires. It was dumb, now that I look back on it. But I had been so proud at the time. Like, the words really flowed. But then I got some criticizim on it, and my opinions instantly changed. I'm so pissed that I'm so easily changed by things.

I want to be stronger. I try to act tough. I guess it works. Only a few people peg me as insecure. That, or only a few people say so and a lot of people actually do think it. Either way, I'm pretty screwed.

My entire existance is called into question. What am I good for? What does it matter if I live or die? Would anyone miss me? Probably my parents. Hopefully my friends. But dead people are often forgotten. That's why I want a big tombstone when I die. Which hopefully won't be soon.

I work at an apparel store. I really like my job there. I feel like I'm good at it. I chat up people when I'm ringing them up on the register. It's really cool. Single serving friends.

I love Fight Club. It's such a good movie.

God. I am tired.

I think I'm going to sleep now. But I will write more in days to come. I want this to mean something. I want this to be my release.