I don’t like being depressed. Me and my horrid, uncaring, pathetic self have locked the bedroom door and began blasting my old Nirvana CD. Poor ol’ Kurt Cobain - so tragic, so REAL. I like reality. Like in Almost Famous. I can relate to him. He was real. William was so fucking real. Am I?
I think I’m too real. Too intense. I wish desperately sometimes to be carefree and do what my blonde hair is screaming at me to do - HAVE FUN! But for some reason I’m under these unbreakable pseudochains where I’m forbidden to be happy. I want to be fake. And cheery. I don’t want to be told a thousand times a day “CHEER UP EMO KID!!!” Fuck! I want to slap on a blue cheeraleading uniform, the one that reflects my pooly blue eyes, shake a few pompoms, and shout some RAH RAH RAH’s… and be happy with that. I want, no, I WISH to be SATISFIED with being superficial and eternally joyous. But I’m not. And I don’t know why. Why I don’t want to date the star football player? It frustrates and saddens me that I can’t just be okay with being mediocre.
Instead I have to ponder things wayyyyyy too much. thinking sucks, and dammit it’s all I ever do.
Someone, hand me the patron...
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