I’m playing in makeup and messing with my hair right now. Avoiding working on my paper, which I told you that I’d write about but still haven’t yet. I don’t know. It’s kind of hard for me. I like attention and hanging out with people; I didn’t get that much in high school, then I got it in college, and now I’m addicted to it.
I tried asking one of my friends — who I guess is sick — about hanging out today. This is the same friend who admitted to me that since I have a boyfriend, she doesn’t hang out with me. I was mad when she said that she was in another city (which is obvious, because that’s where she lives) and couldn’t.
I don’t know. I shouldn’t expect friendship out of anyone anymore. I don’t know why I keep doing it, because it’s stupid of me and it leads to more pain and heartbreak and me being upset with myself and disappointed when people let me down. But inevitably, they’re going to do that.
I should be spending two hours plus every day in the gym, working on my physique. But I get down about that. I feel like the prettier and more confident in myself I get, the less people want to hang out with me or be around me. Was I a much more attractive option when I was much less attractive? The ugly duckling?
Still don’t know. Still writing to get my frustrations out. At this point all I can do is write and have fun with myself and laugh. I’m pretty bemused right now — I was doing my makeup, trying to emulate a really cute, sexy look, and I drew my eyebrows on with black liner.
WHICH LOOKS RIDICULOUS.
But then I mussed up my hair a bunch, and now I look like Rufio (kinda sorta yes) from Hook. You know, the movie with Robin Williams.
Who am I writing to? Who really reads this thing, anyway?
Still writing.
Still alone.
I think I’ll always be alone, save family. It bothers me, but it doesn’t. It keeps fake people away from me. I’m still doing the quid pro quo thing on people. Sometimes I want to return to being the nasty, horrendous monster that I was in 2007. Judgmental and torrential and tyrannous. I hung out with a bad group back then. They were not the best people. I came to realize that they made fun of me more than they were friends to me.
But at least I was cool and in when I was with them. We were all self-loathers, I think. We made ourselves feel better by putting other people down. Man, did that feel good.
Stream of consciousness writing, I believe, is what this is called.
Even now I’m watching that damnable (I don’t think that’s a swear) Facebook notification counter, trying to see if anyone’s taken note, if anyone’s noticed me or what I’ve said or done.
I want to be noticed.
The stream stopped there for a second.
And now it’s done.