But I don't want anyone to think I'm having some sort of breakdown. I'm doing ok. Right now, if you didn't know, I'm in Los Angeles, enrolled in a Semester in LA program through school. It's really fun, and although nervous at first, I can tell this is going to be great after only two days. And I'm doing ok. Great, even. But it has me guessing, thinking about what, exactly, I'm going to be doing for the rest of my life. Maybe it will be a little of everything. Maybe not. But that's ok.
When I wrote this, I wasn't ok. This is a pretty rough piece. Again, kind of like the last post, I don't really know what to say about this one. But the last ones were creative bullshit that I needed to get out and wasn't really sure what to do with. This one is real, that's for sure, but... I wasn't ok when I wrote this. I purposely left it out of the last post because I thought it was too heavy. And the last post wasn't exactly a bowl of sugar. It was a nasty summer. But I'm glad I said it, all of it. I needed to see it all written out, I think. So please, don't think I'm clinically depressed when you read this; I'm fine now. Suffering, if nothing else, is a new experience.
So on that uplifting note, here is "She," a bitchfest about my bitch problems.
She is mystical. She isn't anything I want except when I don't know anything about her. She destroys my hope when she is around, and fills me with anticipation for our next meeting. She makes me feel like dirt with every thought.
She is better than me. She could finish me. Her intelligence is godlike when compared to mine; she explains with infintisimal detail while I stammer.
She is greater than I in every way. At times I truly hate her, she fills me with a level of self-loathing that is unbearable.
She is faster.
She is well on her way. I look on, thinking I am on the same level as her, when she is actually lapping me, passing me by for the second time.
She is magical. She brushes off my advances as if they were unpleasant breezes. She tells me of her day and doesn't bother to ask about mine.
She is an enigma.
She is a book written on two different kinds of paper. Yet she is more likable than me. Even strangers can relate to her. I wonder if I am the wrong one, and I only have to be in her prescence to realize, yes, I am wrong. Because she is always right. It doesn't matter what I try to do, she has already done it.
She is never impressed. Never caring. Her cold eyes search me for worth, and I clamp down, an oyster with no pearl. As if I could keep it from her. She knows I am worthless, talentless, futureless.
She is incredible.
She is shining, blinding judgment. She makes me hate myself. She brightens my day. She smiles when anyone but me talks to her. I am a dark cloud on her sunny days. And I hate myself for it. I flail around, trying to impress her, and I only succeed in annoying her. She hates me, and I hate her, but more than hate, I want her, and I hate myself most of all.