I was hoping to get by.

But now I'm not sure too. No improv for another year. All the other people I know who want to do improv can, but I can't. I don't even have enough money for a damn art pad for my art class.
Fuck.

In reality

In reality, there are just some who want to get laid, and some who just want my help every once in a while because its easier that way. They don't really care. No one, really cares. Maybe its time for me to stop caring.

The wrong skin

I look dainty. I look pretty and sunny. I look best wearing a dress.
I act rough. I act heavy and trudgy. I act best wearing some jeans.
I always wished I had a an ugly face. I don't really know why, but that's what I wanted. I wanted to have a crooked nose, for my arms to not quite match, and a scar across my face. I wanted to to have lanky, clunky legs. I wanted to have a notch in my shoulder. I wanted to look how I felt about myself.
But I'm not. I'm pretty as a flower. People tell me that I need to be more comfortable in my own skin. But I don't want to be. Well, I do, but not in this skin.
The only time, I ever, ever considered actually cutting myself is when I was going to cut myself across the face. I'd rip up my dark pink lips, I'd slash my cheekbones, I'd cut off half of my tiny cute ears.  I didn't. But I wanted to.

I want to feel like I have earned my right to live. When I was young, I met so many people who told me that life wasn't worth living. After a point, because of them, religious beliefs I held, and how I saw the world, I believed them, to a point. Life was worth living only if you deserved it. It was something you had to earn. You had to be good enough.

I don't have to be perfect. That's not what I want. I just always need to be getter better. I always need to be improving. One day I'll be good enough. One day it won't be hard to sleep. I deserve this insomnia. I must not be trying hard enough to sleep. I deserve to struggle with depression.  I haven't done anything good enough with my life to be happy, and I'm not trying hard enough to just snap out of it. Its my fault I don't have very many friends, and its my fault I don't know how to keep the ones I have very well. I'm just crazy, after all. I just need fixing. I'm just not good enough. I just need to work on it all, and get better.

I hate, so very much, that they are attracted to me. I don't like you. I don't like you at all. I just wanted a friend, but I see how you look at me. I see how you take every opportunity to spend time with me, how possessive you are of me. I'm not yours to have. I though we were just friends. That's all I fucking wanted.  Now I have a man who spends time with me because a part of him is slowly becoming entitled to me. Who doesn't say their real opinion and tires to be perfect all the time, so I'll fall for them. I don't like you. At all. I just wanted a friend. I have people I'm attracted to, and they aren't you. I don't care about your devotion. I don't care how much you care. I am not yours to have. I will hang out with you. I will study with you. I will help you out, and listen to your problems, and I will be a damn good friend. But I will not be a tiny bit yours. Not one fucking bit. Get a girl friend, and learn more about yourself. I'm not for you no matter how much you think it should be.

I can care for myself. I can accept myself. Its just hard to get over things. Its hard feeling like I'm not good enough. I found a reason to run away from some things. I made myself far too busy, because I'm trying to drown improv forever out of my head. I love it, its great, but it hurts so much. I loved it too much I think. I'm still jealous. No matter how hard I try, and how happy I am for the people I see succeeding, I'm still so jealous. I just want to feel like I have a group of people that are happy to be around me, that think I'm funny, and that I can contribute to the art that we are all doing together. I want nothing more that to make other people laugh. I want it so bad. I practice, I work, but I'm still not good enough. I'm not confident enough, I think too much and I just don't "get it". I'm all wrong, and its just not quite for me. I'm suffocating. Every time I run away from it I just kind of go numb for a while. Every time I go back, even just for a bit my veins erupt, I go out of my mind and I can't look and my best friend. He has so much, and he doesn't even realize it. He may not like himself, and he may have a lot of problems and a hard life, but he has so much. I hate that I'm so jealous. I've put it far away, and I don't ever mention it to him. But he is amazing. He is hilarious, and handsome, and if he tries something, and works hard at it, its his. Granted, there are some things he wants, that's hes just too scared to try, and I don't think he would ever admit he's afraid of them, but he is. He doesn't want to become his brother, and so anything that reminds him of his brother in himself he shuns, and destroys. And yes, that is hard. That sucks a lot. And he feels so much guilt for so many things, so many things he shouldn't, and he carries so much pain, and yes, that is hard. But he has an escape. Once a week he can go on stage and put that all away. Once a week he can get up on a stage and make people laugh away their pains, remember the good in their lives, and feel better about their lives. Once a  week he can do the very best thing you can do for lots of people. Once a week, he becomes perfect, just for a little while. He can feel the exhilaration of the power of creation. He can be in love with the moment because he can desperately feel the power he has to be alive. I want him to be happy. I want to hang out with him and have a good time. I want to listen to his problems, and want to be a good friend. I want to be the one who remembers that he doesn't like spiders, and that is most favorite smell ever is vanilla and that cinnamon is once of the best ingredients ever, and that kiwi would be soo much better if it didn't have a weird texture, and the friend that deals with the fact he puts ketchup on quesadillas, and the friend he can talk to about how he worries that he is never going to have a girlfriend, and how much the friend zone sucks, and how he really, really is freaking out about this next audition and how badly he wants the role of Puck, and how Peter should really take note of that, and everything else. I want to be that good friend. But I'm still jealous, and I'm still socially awkward, and I still have a hard time talking And I still need to work on myself as a person.  I'm a person who needs fixing, and I person who deal with depression a lot more than I'm would like to admit. I try and talk about things that he spends his time avoiding. I fuck things up all the time. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I don't take social cues very well, I'm sorry that I just don't deal with my own stuff well enough, I'm sorry I'm just not good enough. I'm sorry I'm crazy, and I'm working on it it all.

I hate living in my own skin. I tried fitting in with people once, and I hated it. I know how to get people to like me, but I can't live with myself like that. I just cant. I'm don't really fit into and niches, and I don't know what I should do about myself.
I'm thinking of crawling into a cave of 'busy' and never coming out this semester.  
I still fight the urge to run away.
I can't help but feel like people only stick around long enough until I've either disappointing or offended them, and then they find as many ways to leave as possible.

Its raining today.

I think quite often. Most of the time though, I just make up stories in my head. They're not very good, but they're there. That's what my head is stuffed with. Stories. They explore people, and worlds. How things work. How things could be, if things were a little different. How things could be, if they were completely different. What things matter, what things don't. How those things could change...how they do change. Many times, this is how I try to deal with my ineptitude. How I try to deal with my social inadequacies. I run away from where I am. Any time I try to talk about things with people, it just doesn't go well. I have very few friends. I don't know how to talk to them about things. Every time I hang out at all I feel like I'm tripping around in sand. I don't gt very far at all. Its hard to think that people like being around me. I don't really understand things nearly as much as I'd like to. I will get better. I hope. I'm certainly working for it.
There's a mangy, thin cat out side my house. I want to let it in and feed it, buts its scared of humans. The food I left out for it got knocked over and drenched by the rain. 

I am nothing.

I only write, because I am nothing. I write because that's what they told me to do. You're crazy kid. Write all that out of your head. Put it all away. just put it all on a page and then burn it. Its not really you. You know better. Much better. Did you know, that it used to be honorable to kill yourself? In Rome, they would slowly, painlessly bleed themselves out over the course of a day, it was like going to sleep. Just write till you're sane. write it all away. You an scream on a page, until you can't hear your imperfections anymore. Just keep saying things until you are nothing. Til you feel something better, until you are right. No one wants to ever hear these things. That's just awkward. Honesty is a thing of the past. Of a different time. It isn't for you. You think too much you worthless shit. Go stop bothering everyone's lives. No one wants to hear about your bad day, your feears, yours questions....your sad attempts at life. Just go away. No one cares. You don't matter. You may have been telling yourself some lies. That you matter. That you'll get better.....all lies, you know. It's almost amusing.... watching you trying. Look at you! Look at the way you act like you still have hope. Look at how you clumsily go around, you might as well ask a person you never met that they had it all coming, this life of theirs. Look at you. "A had been, who never was", where truer words ever spoken? Just go. Just fucking go. Write yourself sane and normal. No one wants to see who you are. When they do, it just makes them feel awkward, and wishing you would leave sooner. Really, just go fucking die.