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I am just an old garbage bag full of blood patiently waiting for death to rescue me, but sometimes when I tell people that, their immediate response is HOW CAN YOU BE SAD, YOU’RE HILARIOUS!!!!! and then for five seconds I’m like, “This person who has never met me before is correct. I’m so funny I should stop thinking life is a trash can.” But five seconds after that, some human roadkill yells at the grocery store bagger or pulls his scrotum out on the train, and I get the insatiable urge to peel my skin off like the layers of an onion and jam my thumbs into my eye sockets, just hoping that
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People are boring and terrible. I am boring and terrible. My funny runs out, my cute runs out, my smart sometimes hiccups, my sexy wakes up with uncontrollable diarrhea. I have an attitude. And a sharp edge! I’m impatient. I like the whole bed. I hate anyone touching and moving my haphazardly arranged possessions all the time. Plus, I’m a downright horrible sharer, and I can’t guarantee that I won’t write my name on something in the refrigerator I don’t want her to eat. These quirks, if I’m being generous, have had thirty-six years to consolidate into one giant mass of “mine.” How do you get
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If I had to declare a religion for a census, I’d probably choose “agnostic,” because the parts of the Bible I’ve read are just, like, a really boring soap opera that’s dragged on for too many seasons,
I’m not even sure I had a personality back then; I just tried to haphazardly arrange other people’s projections and shit I thought was cool into something captivating.
I spent too much time trying to mold myself to fit the romantic ideals of humans who proved themselves unworthy of that effort, and I regret it. Never again will I be with someone who is unwilling to accept me as I am, or who has any desire to mold me into something that makes me uncomfortable.
I will never be snappy with a waitress or lose my mind on the phone with customer support or make small talk with someone else’s kid, because, honest to God, I would rather eat my own teeth than suffer any more humiliating human contact.
My mind is a never-ending series of shame spirals. Do I have to go to that? And if I do agree to go to that, who else is going? In what capacity do these people know me? As an Internet joke person, or as a sad real-life person who sometimes makes jokes? Sad people make not-sad people uncomfortable, so I better think about smiling. Or will that be off-putting?
