of course.

Everything is so perfect, yet I feel the need to be a neurotic freak and worry all the time.  This is the one time when I am supposed to NOT worry.  And yet here I am, so goddamn worried.
I am not good enough.  If I could accept that I am good enough, I wouldn't worry.  I am good enough.  I don't believe that.
You are.  You are way more than good enough.  You are more than I deserve.  That's why I worry.  It doesn't feel real.  It's too nice for my life.  Nice things do not exist in my life.   I don't believe it.  I can't believe it, so I worry.

I don't know how this will work, but it has to.  I don't want to I think that if I see that it works, over time, I will worry less.  The tension will ease and the chaos that is current constant for my mind will drift away.  Of course the only perfect thing in my life would be so fucked up.  And the sick thing is that it really isn't fucked up at all.  It's all in my mind.
I wish I could just talk to you forever.  Then I would know everything is okay.



I am so crazy.  Crazy people don't deserve things this lovely.

I haven't been feeling inspired to write. Which I guess is a good thing. The only thing inspiring me write now is the feeling like I am heading for a breakdown.

Good things only seem to lead to disappointment.
I am so sad because I am happy. There is no way this can last. Things never work out. Why should this time be any different?
f
u
c
k
It won't work and I want to cry. I am not a real person, so how could anyone have any sort of legitimate interest in me? They couldn't.
I am sad because I am happy.
I wish it worked the other way, too.    I would be happy a lot more often.
I have been thinking too hard. Not thinking, fretting. People must think I am insane. The faces I make when I am lost in these thoughts make me look like I am ready to collapse in a heap of sadness. Maybe I am.

I am made of brittle, brittle glass.
I need some goddamn bubble-wrap.

how strange it is to be anything at all

I did something wild last night.
Someone said something spot on that made me very happy.
"You don't look like the kind of person who would do this. You look like you're going to be a librarian or a teacher or something."
"Actually, I am an English education major. So no, I do not seem like that kind of person. That's a big part of the reason why I wanted to do it."

"Does this mean anything?" I ask curtly.
"What do you mean?" is the justifiably confused reply.
"Whenever I want it to mean something, it means nothing; the only time it ever seems to mean anything at all is when I want it to mean absolutely nothing." Rambling.
"It shouldn't matter what it means." Confusion.
"But it does. It all matters." Silence. "It has to matter. What is it if it doesn't matter. I just have to know."
"What do you want it to mean."
"It doesn't work like that."
"Everything." Exasperation seems like a reasonable reaction at this point.
"To nothing." Of course.


I do not believe I am worthy of love.  In order to believe I am worthy, someone needs to prove it to me.  In order for me to believe anyone who tries, I need to know it for myself.  In order to know it for myself, someone needs to prove it.  I am stuck.