"Why do I keep counting.."
I love giving myself the exact room to just go mental and write about random things, most of the times I'm just crying my fucking heart out and complaining about my miserable life.
Let's face it. My life's not miserable. I know nothing of people who have miserable lives and I shan't go on like I'm the person who's having the hardest time on earth 'cos that's not true.
We lack honesty, especially about ourselves.
Now that I revealed the complete uselessness of my writing, I should get back to my usual sentimental devastation. OH GOD I'M LONELY NOBODY WOULD CARE FOR ME EVERYBODY IGNORES ME. Well that's pretty much a summary of it, but that's what all I love to write about means.
Yeah, that is it. I am quite lonely sometimes, but not as alone as I would like to look. I'm alone, mostly because I choose to be, and after saying that, what do I have to complain about? I mean, it's me, nothing else.
Then here it comes, the going around about the fact that I do nothing to sort out of my (chosen) isolation. The sadness about me not giving the eye to all the boys I see around meself and therefore being categorised (I tend to categorise myself a lot actually, but other people do too) as the one who doesn't care about THAT. The mysterious and superior girl.
Beware of the superior girl.
OH SUPERIOR? Superior to what?
And this is self-pity just the same. This ironic sarcastic view of my self-pity is self-pity.
Going to bed is always the best idea. And I'm going to bed (alone.. OH GOD I'M LONELY NOBODY WOULD CARE FOR ME EVERYBODY IGNORES ME and all that..).