Me and other debacles.

Can I be one hundred percent honest? This is my blog, so I'll do whatever I want, thank you.

But I won't, really. I won't tell you the truth. I'll make it poetic and bejewel it with some sort of beauty that it really isn't. It isn't beautiful where I've been. My stupid feet hurt from the coals of hell or something. Like, it's totally lame because I know people have it a lot worse off than I do, but I still feel this stuff. I don't want to be compared to someone else's sob story. Don't tell me what I'm doing wrong. I just want to be my own sob story for a few moments here and there and then just not have to participate when I don't want to.

And right now, I don't want to. I don't want to participate in anything. Not bowling or badminton or AP French. I just want my own personal libraries of books to read and write in and be the most selfish girl in the world and not care about anyone else at all. Not real people, at least. Book people. Because normal people leave you. They leave you and it sucks a whole lot, and even when you still have a lot of people who love you, after one person leaves you, you start to look at all the other people differently. Like you might not have them for a very long time. Everyone looks like they're going to leave you.

This isn't about a boy. This isn't over a boy. This is over stuck-ed-ness. And how I don't understand math and I don't really understand life that much sometimes, either.

I want to wake up and be perfect. I am wired to be a people pleaser. Which is weird and stupid and something I would like very much to be able to turn my back on. Nature versus nurture.

I am not perfect, but believe you me: I will try every moment to make every single one of you think that I am completely and one hundred percent flawless. Make you think I am the lady in the advertisements who has it all. I will try to write things that will make you love me and call me talented and pinch my cheeks and call me the hope of the future. I will try for the kind of beauty that makes you stop and stare or roll down your window and cat call to, and I will try for the kind of feminism that hates cat calls, but I'm just as ridiculously flawed as every other person out there. I would love a cat call. I'm typical. I'm stereotypical. I just want to be wonderful and breathtaking and really talented and really actually the hope of the future. And maybe I am. Those hopes are the only things that get me out of bed some mornings. Other mornings it's just the fact that I have to. It's like, pardon my French, but quel est le point?

I just want to be perfect! Is that too much to ask?! That's too much to ask.

I'm not depressed, but I'm not exactly jazzed about everything, either. Maybe writing this and putting it out there for the whole world to see will help get it off my shoulders. Maybe it won't. Because I've been here for a while and I thought it would just go away, but it isn't going away.

There are 6,973,738,433 alive right now, and two of them have broken my heart. That feels like enough to last me to infinity and beyond, thank you very much.

I take that back. Three of them. Because I suppose I have to include myself in the heartbreakers. It does take two to tango, you know, and I love you too much to blame you.

Do you know I started crying when I got handed Les Miserables this morning? Because it's 1463 pages long. That sounds like my kind of really gorgeous distraction. I started singing to myself and crying. Ha, maybe I'm actually myself right now after all.

Let me be enough for you.

"To love another person is to see the face of God."

All my love,

Addy