acting up.

I didn’t want to write but I had the itchy feeling that I had too. These days I feel like getting “lost” and unavailable but ever since somebody (insert lilting accusatory voice here) abused the power, it feels evil to do that to my friends.

The thing is, I didn’t want to write because I knew nobody bothers reading me anyway. No, I’m not pity-partying (gosh, this certainly will not be a party) and whoever you are, don’t argue that you do read my blog or anything like that. It’s not cute and it doesn’t make me feel better.  It only makes me feel like I’m acting up.

Because I am acting up. Just like it applies to other people (*ehem*jec*ehem*), you don’t like something mentioned because you’re guilty as hell. I am feeling alone and depressed and thehell unimportant because I am alive and yet somehow, it feels like the writer of my life has a permanent writer’s block. I’m slowly sliding into bitterness again and I have nothing to show for it. Well, at least we now know SOTE is not the reason for my inate bitterness.

But apparently, as you grow up, your bitterness doesn’t become emo anymore; it becomes bitchiness.

When you’ve been down and sad and bitter all of the time, and you managed to rise above it only to fall headfirst again, you don’t feel like a victim anymore. You become tougher, bitchier, more scathingly sarcastic. You become even more sensitive, but instead of cowering down pitying yourself, you learn to fight back. And fight back you do so viciously. And sometimes you lash out at people who don’t deserve it, but are too stupid to realize that anyway, so you get free victim for your unprovoked wrath.

You feel frustrated and trapped and lonely all of the time and yet you’re too old for this shit. You are suffering from delayed puberty.

No wonder people are always on the quest for happiness. It is such an elusive piece of crap.

***********

I’m drowning myself with TV and movies and I don’t get to sleep properly. When I do get to sleep, I am hounded by dreams that invariably involves some guy, sometimes someone I know, sometimes someone I don’t. Sometimes they are nice, other times they are real jerks. But invariably they hold my hand tightly, intimately. I fall asleep at the coming of the morning, waking up only to realize that I wanted to sleep more (no suprise there) and continue to dream of a life not mine, but could’ve been.

I’m angry all of the time… and I don’t know why.

-Jean, Crash (2004)

~ by denice on 15 May, 2007.