If Sharing Is Caring, Call Me Selfish.

Today is Sunday, September 27th, 2009 and today I'm feeling as though if I don't raise my voice, if I don't speak out, I'm going to drown in the sorrow of my own creation.

You piss me off. You really do. The way you talk, the way you act, the way you think the most insignificant things are the end of the world. They all piss me off. It's who you are and I can't change it. But I can change the fact that you talk to me. Don't.

I don't like the way you've taken parts of me, and made them parts of you. My tastes, the things I like, they've become yours and you claim them as though they were yours to begin with. Face it, you're not your own person. You're parts of people that you idolize and I don't like it.

You want to be baptized. Maybe you mean it. I don't really know considering you're a lesbian and homosexuality is a sin, and I don't think you're going to give up that girlfriend of yours to devote yourself to the way of God.

I don't enjoy the way my mother rants. She screams and yells and expects us to listen and follow along and share her point of view, even when she's wrong, terribly wrong. I don't care if Zorn loses his job, the Redskins suck anyway. Did she ever think that maybe it is his fault because he didn't coach the players to alter the plays for a pro game, not just run it how it is in practice? Did she ever think that maybe, just maybe, the other team is better? No. Probably not.

Dakota wants me to date you. I want to date you too. Odds of that happening? Zero to none. Why? You don't like me as anything more than the girl that makes you cookies. Sure, we flirt. Whatever. It doesn't really matter to you. You're a man whore and I'm accepting that. None of that is going to affect the fact that I'm going to miss you a whole hell of a lot when you move...

Sleeping has been coming slower and slower and harder to keep. I think too much and I can't breathe much anymore. I lay awake for hours some nights wondering if someone is thinking about me while they can't sleep too.

You're a waste of space and I hate you. I hope your "illness" is terminal and I never have to deal with you again.

My mother is still trying to get in my pants and practically everything else I own. She's borrowing my jackets and stealing my camis and trying on my jeans. Isn't she stupposed to be my mom, not my sister?

I don't want to get high. I honestly don't. It seemed like a good idea at the time, a spur of the moment thing, but I can't do it. I'll probably never be able to do it. I can't smoke. I can't get high. I can't be the person you want me to be. I'm sorry.

Suicide has been passing through my mind too frequently recently. Far too frequently... I don't know how to stop the thoughts, but I'm strong enough not to do it. I won't kill myself, I promise, I just wish razor blades and dramatic ways to die weren't flashing in my mind all the time.

You really wanted to me share, and I still don't know why, but I can tell you why I didn't want to. Things I think would make you cry, make you worry, make you watch me closely, and I don't want that. And I really hope you're too caught up in your happy life to care about this blog and that you don't read it. Part of me wants you to, but I know what you'll say, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that...

I'm getting sleepy. My eyes are falling shut. I'm going now.

Goodbye.