When I unwillingly met you the first time, you seemed like you’d be a nice guy. I was apparently wrong. What you’ve done to her I can’t forgive. You just had to be so fucking perfect, didn’t you? I want you to die. Alone. And I don’t want anyone to know about it. That way no one will give a shit about you anymore.
Don’t fucking call me and yell at me.
You don’t call me for 3 months, never answer my calls, never even texted the fuck back, and you think you have the right to be mad at me?
Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?
Just stop talking me, completely.
All I see you as is a burden;
something I just have to deal with.
Why don’t you try talking to me nicely for a change, and maybe I’ll WANT to spend time with you, rather than barking at me over a voicemail.
Fuck off.
FURTHERMORE: DON’T EVER, EVER FUCKING TELL ME YOU LOVE ME MORE THAN MY MOTHER DOES, BECAUSE GOD KNOWS HOW MANY DAYS I’VE SPENT WITH YOU COMPARED TO HER 18 YEARS. FUCK YOU.
I’m trapped. I’m trapped in several ways. One of them is why I’m writing this, and that’s because I can’t talk about it anywhere else. My family doesn’t know, and whenever I try to talk to my friends they either get quiet, afraid to offend me, or they’re too aggressively optimistic about something that they couldn’t possibly understand. If they knew what it felt like, they wouldn’t be telling me to cheer up.
I’m trapped in my own mind. I’m trapped in my own house. And I’m trapped in my own goddamned body. I’m transsexual. And I have to explain to everyone I tell that to what the fuck it means, because everybody thinks it means I’m a hermaphrodite or a cross-dresser. I was born with a body that doesn’t suit my brain, and now my brain knows it and it’s making me pay for it. I deal with constant, seemingly incurable depression. My chest houses a constant pain, a dull aching, like my heart is breaking, over and over again. I can feel parts of me that aren’t there. I can’t even handle hearing my name anymore.
I don’t know why this is happening to me, or how to feel okay about it, but I doubt that’s possible at this point. I’m not a normal person. I figured that out long before I realized this, but I’m even less normal now. Normal people don’t have brains that reject their entire bodies. Normal people don’t hide inside because they’re afraid of someone calling them “sir”. Normal people don’t stare at pictures of beautiful women, crying and holding serrated knives to their Adam’s apples. I don’t know what normal people do. But I want this to be over so I can figure it out.
I know I hurt you. I get it.
It’s been years. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve apologized.
You just think you can say anything to me because you’ve got my hurting you to fall back on.
In reality, you don’t.
But you don’t see that, and you won’t.
You’re so selfish now. You can say it’s my fault all you want, but you’re smart enough to know that you are who you make yourself out to be.
And it hurts. I think this whole situation has ruined me more than it ever affected you.
Congrats, you got what you wanted;
I’m completely miserable.
I’m going to get over you.
I mean it this time.
Have a nice life.
See those posts down there?
Yeah.
We could use more of those.
I know you’ve got something inside.
LET IT ALL OUT, BABY.
Listening to Pink Floyd when you’re high doesn’t make you a stoner.
The fact that you smoke every fucking day makes you a stoner.
You know, it isn’t really all your fault that you’re the second-dumbest person I’ve ever met in my entire life - your mom is a fat bitch who only cares about preaching to people about “God” and what she’s going to eat next. Your father doesn’t give a fuck about you, and everybody knows that. All he cares about is his weed, his women, and his music. And let’s not forget about your step-mommy, stepping in to save the day. Sadly, she cares the most. Unfortunately, she’s trying too hard to be your friend, and now you’re nothing more than a stupid, ignorant bitch. The sad thing is, you have what it takes to be at least a little bit smarter. Oh well. All you care about is pretending to be the world’s next gay porn star (good luck with that), being right all the time (“nobody can beat me in a debate, I dare you to try” is basically a death wish; I’d shut up a bit if I were you - your arguments don’t even make sense most of the time), and making yourself almost famous on MySpace (you’re actually succeeding, which is fucking hilarious). So no harm done, you can go on being a stupid manwhore, and nobody will give you shit about it.
PS: Cut your damn hair already. You look like a Chris Crocker wannabe.
