I had the instinct to write here, and I almost didn't because I didn't want to subject Kailyn to more angst. Then I realized that the point of making this thing and not sharing it with the world is that I can write whatever I want whenever I want without consideration of such things. The mood often comes upon me when I'm upset. That's not so illogical, really. Kailyn, if you don't want Carla-angst, stop now, before it's too late. You have been warned.
Lately, the past two night in particular, I have experienced a great deal of what can only be called self-loathing. This is silly. One of my pet peeves here has been that I am one of the only self confident people I know. Most are either insecure or arrogant and insecure. The best of us have our moments, and I certainly know I am not the best, because if I was I'm fairly certain I'd be doing something more important right now. I am good though. I know it, on some level, even if I really don't feel it at the moment.
Worthless. Void of any redeeming quality.
Also, I don't feel very good about people in general right now. Most people aren't nice. A lot of the people I know and care for, hell, a lot of the people I love aren't nice, not really. Everybody does nice things, everybody can be nice, if they wish to be, but not that many are. At least, not as many as I used to think. It wasn't even that I thought they were nice, so much as it didn't occur to me that they weren't. It's not even a question of mean, it's a question of not nice. It doesn't make them bad people.
My mind doesn't work like other people's. I sometimes forget or doubt this, but then something will happen, and it is slapped back in my face that I am not living in the same truth as other people.
There is depth to me, yes, and I can't possibly share my every waking thought with people, but at the end of the day, I pretty much display what I am honestly thinking and feeling all the time. This leads to a glitch in how I read others: I expect the same of them. But the fact is, people DON'T say what they mean, they smile and say I love you when they mean that you disgust them.
Everyone is a fucking coward. I know I cannot be wholly exempt from this particular censure of the human race, but the fact of the matter is, no one can be fully exempt from ANY censure on that scale, and in this particular case I think I stand well enough to censure without being hypocritical to the point of shame. To be human is to live with some level of hypocrisy every day.
I told a bulimic girl that she was a fat whore and she let me go a week without giving me flak for it. She gave me flak for it when I went up to her to commend her on her bravery in expressing her deepest pain to an audience of people she interacts with on a daily basis. There are, of course, extenuating circumstances. I was not calling her a fat whore, I was relating to her another time where I had thought of her so, when consumed by a great deal of bitterness. It was an incident we had talked about with perfect freedom before, and I mentioned to remark on the fact that i had never made any note of what she weighed until I had been wronged by her. Why is being "fat" one of the most insulting thing you can say to a girl for whom the word isn't wholly ridiculous (and sometimes, even then)? My point, ultimately, was that I didn't think it was true at all. Why would I tell her if she was? Ah, and there is our hypocrisy. Honestly though, if I did consider her a fat whore, I might not tell her, but if she asked me to contradict my first instinct would be to get out of having to respond rather than telling her so. (Assuming, of course, that she is someone I care about hurting. If I didn't care about hurting the fat whore I was talking to, I'd tell her she was a fat whore and have done with it).
The fact of the matter is, I avoided her when I thought that because I knew it came from anger, and I don't think there is anything in myself that I trust less than anger. If she had asked me what I thought of her when I was in that state, I would have told her that she was a fat whore, and that would giving up a certain level of power. If I'm going to tell someone off for what they do to me, I'm going to wait until I'm calm enough to do it with objective facts rather than mere insults, however justified they may be. (Incidentally, she had sex with my ex-boyfriend when we had not even been broken up a week, and is somewhat overweight, though still quite pretty).
Grah! I am tired of being sick! I've already fulfilled my sick quota this year. This is completely Karma for last weekend. In the future I will be more wary of both absinthe and ex-boyfriends, please, God, just let me be well and, if it's not to much, focused enough to get caught up in school.
Oooow, stupid head. I should sleep, but I'm not, because I know I'll just lay there forever with a million-and-one thoughts swirling around in my head, around and around and around and around, until I wonder if I'll ever be able to slip into dream like I used to. I can't at college. It was so easy, at home, slipping into that state. It's gotten so elusive.
I'm sick, and tired, and my stomach is complaining, and my head is complaining, and my back is complaining, and my feet are complaining, and my heart is complaining, and I'm complaining and I really don't think highly of myself right now.
I. Am. Unhappy.
I can be kind of bad at admitting that, at times.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!
I don't break down as completely as I used in front of the people I've met here. I think that's interesting.
Also, I hate how aware many black people insist on being about race. Start the revolution with yourself, asshole, and keep my skintone out of it, because you don't know me, and I honestly didn't make any note of yours until you insisted on it. I fucking hate reverse racism.

It's your game, oh world, but that doesn't mean I have to play.
I don't even know what I meant by that, really.
My phone is ringing.
I should answer.