We all wish.

Wasting Time.

The skin I live in. In. Skin. The skin.

As a veteran acne-ridden non-teen, there's a lot I've had to get used to, that other people don't even seem to think about.

My best friend sleeps in her bra sometimes.
Now... I can't think of a single reason why that'd be comfortable. But the point is...
I can't do it at all. My back would freak out.

I can't sleep in make-up either.
I can't sleep on any of my cheeks, nor can I lean on them...
I can't touch my face. I can't scratch my face.
I can't go too long without showering.
I can't wear make-up indoors for more than... four hours. Six, if I'm outside.

I don't do sleep-overs.
I don't do "surprise visits" (= don't expect me to open the door if I don't know you're coming)

My life is.... rules.

So fuck you if you sleep with make-up on.

...I want your life.

Read my dead eyes.

Thanks.

...is a man's best friend

I've always wondered what tweeters -- ACTIVE tweeters -- are like in person. How does a full conversation play out with these people? And do they ever make eye contact with the person they're (supposedly) talking to?

The most probable answer is:
All active social media-ists are near non-existent in reality.
You choose your own platform in life, I suppose.

--

My platform has become this very couch I'm sitting on.

                    It's blue.

             It's medium-sized.

2% cotton and whatnot, 98% love.

You could say that this couch represents the way I choose to live life now. It's comfortable and doesn't judge me for who I am, or what I happen to not be able to do.
It also allows me to watch A LOT of TV, in full pyjama gear.
To slouch down and write diary updates about LIFELIFE and everything I want to stop thinking about.
To relax. To eat. To give and receive hugs.

Final Wisdom:

Since stress and sadness and war and hate and jealousy and angst and delayed homework and societal pressure and general OCD is near inevitable; get a nice couch.

Your couch loves you.




Too bad it's not ACTUALLY my couch.




I need to make videos.

The short short story of something not so short

This is the story about a man with expensive glasses and bare feet.
It starts with him waiting on a bridge; not shy yet shy; so sweet yet darkened;
waiting for me, you see.

The middle is all confused and muddled, heart-wrenching and too brittle to touch.

But the point is the end, just as the end is where all the points add up and connect.
Nothing matters but this: he holds me, and I hold onto him.

----

This is another post about the ridiculousness of the human race. I've done many of these, I think. But it's like an endless pit of inspiration. It really is.
Of course, it also ties together with WHY I'VE BEEN COMPLETELY FUCKING AWOL these past couple of....... forever.


I love you. I'm sorry.


Bill Burr, the comedian, said: "You know what's weird; anytime I think about killing myself, it's NEVER about anything big. It's always little things". 

Flashback to this morning when I was lying cheek-down on the floor, day-dreaming about either jumping from a tall building or shooting myself in the face, because of an email I got from the people who, apparently, cannot fix my phone.
I chose the shoot-myself-in-the-face option by the way, because of an inherent fear of falling. It's like a vertigo thing. Except way less swirly, and more panic-y.
But.... I don't own a gun, so...

Here's the thing. There are two types of: "I want to die". 
There's the type where you actually genuinely want to go kill yourself,
and then there's the type where you, exhaustedly, just want to give up on living, because of stupid everyday-things that won't matter in ten years' time.

There's a huge difference.

The first type has happened only once. I'm not kidding when I say that I left my house at around ten in the evening to walk into town (one hour away) and jump off a bridge. I texted my best friend to tell her this, and got the answer: "Ehm. Ok.."

..................

.......... That still stings, by the way. Just.... Just, ouch.

Anyway, this isn't about that. This is about me wasting time with type number 2, because of financial issues. (Woopedidoo)
Basically, everything I own is breaking down, and I can't afford to fix all of it.
That is all.

Seriously. 

I know that I easily fall into small depression-like states, and that this sometimes affects the people around me. I feel bad about that. I do.
I used to be much better at handling my emotions. Now a days, I'm more like a child than I ever was as a child. I still remember walking down the road with my father after a movie, stating that "this type of entertainment is important in order to distract people from their everyday, boring, lives" (Wise-ass).
I was so sure of what life was, as a 10-year-old, and yet didn't know the meaning of "stress", "worry" or "fear". I was such a happy little idiot.
And I still am.
I just forget that sometimes.

I forget. I do what I feel I need to do in order to numb myself down. I get worse. I go to bed, thinking it's all over. I wake up, and I remember again.
This is my cycle of unnecessary human behaviour.

At least I'm smart enough to know it's dumb.

If I ever get my laptop back,
I'll return.