Since I cannot think of anything to say tonight while I'm in this pit of angsty, self-pity...
This is me a year ago:
"Bottom of the Ocean When the Honey Drips
I never know what to publically write anymore. I worry about what people think. I worry if I'll upset anybody. Either way, I need to write something. I'm filled with the urge to spring loose a few thoughts onto my comrades that may care to read. And here goes.
With bloodshot eyes, snot dribbling down the back of my throat, and quivering lips - I promised myself one, little thing the second the plane's wheels lost touch with the hot, Arizona asphalt. I told myself that from then on, I'd focus more on the needs and happiness of Hannah Sara Jones and nobody else's. Well, of course I'd want to focus on other people as well, but nobody would come first before myself. I like to think that I've achieved this a little bit, at least... But I've hurt certain people because of it, and I don't like that. It tends to cause inner reflections that result in confusion, frustration, and eventually depression.
Ever since I arrived in Florida to stay with my parents until I can get on my own feet, I haven't really done anything to prove to myself that I can be self-sufficient and independent. I've indulged in alcohol, laziness, nocturnal hours, and the internet. I've indulged in getting NOTHING done. I do work a lot, and I guess I'm happy about that. But when I'm not working, I feel like a leech. I feel like a bump on a damned log. I have TONS and TONS of books and movies that I have yet to read and watch. Don't get me wrong, I want to lose myself in things I enjoy. I don't know what my problem is though. I've lost interest in... my interests. Yeah.
I need a hobby that I enjoy doing as much as listening to music. That takes no effort except the atoms you use in your body when you're lost in awe and admiration. I can just lay there; I can drive; I can sleep; I can work on something; I can practically do anything while listening to music, and it's wonderful. It's probably unhealthy. Let's face it. Anything that I associate with is most likely unhealthy for me. I'm someone who abuses, misuses, and overuses the things and people I enjoy. And I grow tired. I grow bored, but I never grow on or grow up.
There is nobody that can help me as much as I can help myself. I'm not writing this out of plea for assistance or guidance. I already know what I need to do. Everything inside my little head is disjointed and I'm not okay, but I have to go on. I can't wallow in self-pity like I have been doing.
There is a hand-squeeze within myself that only I can grasp at this point.
But thank you."
---
Not terribly different. That'll do, pig. That'll do.
This is me a year ago:
"Bottom of the Ocean When the Honey Drips
I never know what to publically write anymore. I worry about what people think. I worry if I'll upset anybody. Either way, I need to write something. I'm filled with the urge to spring loose a few thoughts onto my comrades that may care to read. And here goes.
With bloodshot eyes, snot dribbling down the back of my throat, and quivering lips - I promised myself one, little thing the second the plane's wheels lost touch with the hot, Arizona asphalt. I told myself that from then on, I'd focus more on the needs and happiness of Hannah Sara Jones and nobody else's. Well, of course I'd want to focus on other people as well, but nobody would come first before myself. I like to think that I've achieved this a little bit, at least... But I've hurt certain people because of it, and I don't like that. It tends to cause inner reflections that result in confusion, frustration, and eventually depression.
Ever since I arrived in Florida to stay with my parents until I can get on my own feet, I haven't really done anything to prove to myself that I can be self-sufficient and independent. I've indulged in alcohol, laziness, nocturnal hours, and the internet. I've indulged in getting NOTHING done. I do work a lot, and I guess I'm happy about that. But when I'm not working, I feel like a leech. I feel like a bump on a damned log. I have TONS and TONS of books and movies that I have yet to read and watch. Don't get me wrong, I want to lose myself in things I enjoy. I don't know what my problem is though. I've lost interest in... my interests. Yeah.
I need a hobby that I enjoy doing as much as listening to music. That takes no effort except the atoms you use in your body when you're lost in awe and admiration. I can just lay there; I can drive; I can sleep; I can work on something; I can practically do anything while listening to music, and it's wonderful. It's probably unhealthy. Let's face it. Anything that I associate with is most likely unhealthy for me. I'm someone who abuses, misuses, and overuses the things and people I enjoy. And I grow tired. I grow bored, but I never grow on or grow up.
There is nobody that can help me as much as I can help myself. I'm not writing this out of plea for assistance or guidance. I already know what I need to do. Everything inside my little head is disjointed and I'm not okay, but I have to go on. I can't wallow in self-pity like I have been doing.
There is a hand-squeeze within myself that only I can grasp at this point.
But thank you."
---
Not terribly different. That'll do, pig. That'll do.
jdalewine:
ugh. if you only knew.
camshaft:
