“Could you tell where my head was at when you found me? No. Not even while we were talking? Not at all. What about now? Not really. Were you even paying attention? What?”

And once again, the main character of this story finds himself being relevant. Only in this story. Once again, no one cares, no one sees, no one is watching this lame TV show. Not even my freaking father knows when my birthday is.

Just kidding, that’s not true. He knows. A lot of people do; a lot of people see; a lot of people know. Look at me now, will I ever learn? I’m struggling so much not to be boring, and still I can’t help but feel unimportant. Not that these two things are related. But I wish someone other than my grandmother liked me for what I am.

I have good friends and my family loves me. I have no right to complain. But I’m feeling like death again. Not that I want to die; I’m already dead.

I WANT TO THROW UP UNTIL I’M NO LONGER IN MY BODY

And I truly hate the position I put myself in front of you. I’m not this fragile. I’m not this boring. I wish I never saw you again, but I can’t wait to meet you. I hate that I think I’m not good enough for you, and it just makes things worse. I wish I was less of a generic sad teen dude. I’m not. Not right now, at least. Right now, the most “in character” thing I could do is kill myself. But I won’t. I’m not important enough to myself to actually kill myself over my thoughts.

I’M TRYING, OK?

XOXO

PS: I wrote this so I don’t have to complain personally about my anxieties, and to be honest, if you (anyone) thinks that I’m lame for being an anxious bastard, fuck off. I don’t need you reminding me that it sucks to feel like I do. =)