Saturday, January 12, 2013

Afternoon angst

Insecurity is such a terrible thing.

And Pebbles just passed on, RIP my dear terapin. My 11th birthday gift that was no bigger than a macaroon whom grew to be my massive shower buddy.

Time to chase for my pay cheques, I don't like how sad my bank account looks.

I'll start to feel better. Things that bother me now, I might start to give less of a fuck about in time to come. Though frankly, I don't know if that's a good place to be, I haven't been there in a really long time. I'm still getting used to being this version of myself, the one that doesn't jump out of the pan and into the fire. I've been doing good, splendid in fact, considering how it was such an abrupt moment of change and I've not been any where near faltering... But I'm getting a little weary, because there's so much blaaaaaaaah%@*#)$*@^ that I haven't learnt how to deal with. Like, where do I vent all these knotted emotions... :<

I don't like talking about my feelings much. Everything always sounds ridiculous the moment I let the words slip, and the moment I start talking, I wish I hadn't even started. I hate imposing on people, asking for favours or even asking for a listening ear and worse still, bursting into tears. But what I hate most is making people feel like they have to thread with such caution around me because I am this poor tortured, sensitive soul ( which maybe I am but fuck that shit ) that they have to care for like a delicate flower. I just want people to be themselves around me, say and do what they want, and for me to have the strength to accept that. Why do I do this to myself? It's like waiting in line to make a trip to the emotional slaughterhouse. I find my incapability to be selfish highly annoying. I am this walking contradiction just waiting to implode * pulls hair out *

Wish I could wake up one morning and have my house magically cleaned. I really hate small spaces, I feel so suffocated. I am going to live in a lovely, clean, open house in future where I can pirouette and grand jete around without the fear of tripping to my death.

Clinging onto a punching bag like a koala and swinging about suddenly seems very therapeutic to me.


I shall go bother myself with some petty emotionally unentertaining problems like why my floor tiles are so hideous.

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