I have a problem. And it’s not even a real problem. It’s simply the fact that it’s October and it’s all the misery connotations that go with the fact that it’s October. And I need to talk. But I’ve gotten very used to not talking about all the crap stuff in my head, except for vaguely mentioning them so that you don’t get worried when I stop talking to you for a week or two, or stop talking in general. Or stay in my room. Or break out that purple box beside my bed. Because it’s just who I am. There’s no stopping me or guilting me into not being like this. It’s just not that easy.
You know the way people say you can talk to them if you ever have a problem? What would you even say? Because the things that bother me and upset me and send me into raging paroxysms of weeping and feeling like poo, are pretty inconsequential. For example, what’s technically upsetting me now is the broken ‘e’ key and my oily forehead and that whole baby thing. But really, it’s none of that. It’s just this feeling. This feeling that I can’t contend with the elements. And to explain the feeling, I’d need hours upon hours of your undivided attention and, let’s face it, that’s just not possible in our fast-moving society, is it? People have their own lives and no time to be listening to my feelings.
And I’m not angry about that. I accept that. The only flaw in this system is that I’ve gotten so used to people not having time to listen that when they actually do have time, I have nothing to say. Well, I have plenty to say, but I don’t have the words or the gall. Or the level of alcohol required in my system to tell you everything you need to know in order to hate me. Sometimes I wish everyone hated me, just so I wouldn’t have to waste their time. Surely that’s not healthy?