The mediocrity that is me
2002-05-10 08:09:03 (UTC)

I could come up with a good title, but I really don't care.

Today I was driving home from school and I saw some jerk in
a truck ahead of me throw a water bottle into the car in
front of me. He seriously just leaned out the window, and
tossed it straight into the car. Like it was something he
did everyday. What an asshole. I bet he goes to my high

I took the "Is That Ham?" Quiz again today. Never fails to
brighten my day. I was also cleaning my room (the floor is
almost visible now) and I found one of my journals that I
used to write in. The one I didn't rip into little pieces
and burn and then throw away, even though I really should
have. I don't know why I saved that one. Some sort of sick,
twisted emotional attatchment. Maybe I get some kind of
masochistic delight out of reading it once in a while. So I
read it, hated it, and hated myself for ever writing in it.
But I still didn't throw it away. I always look back and
read entries, and I can remember exactly what I was
thinking when I wrote them. I should probably just go and
rip it into a million pieces and throw it away, and just be
done with it forever and forget everything in there. Just
forget those years ever happened. I hate looking at the
pages with bloodstains on them and thinking "Damn. You were
a teenage cliche" but at the same time, I remember being me
and being in that position. I just read the entries and I
want to go back and put my arms around me and give me the
hug I know I needed, and yet I still have this feeling of
utter self-loathing that I can't shake. I'm fascinated with
it, and overwhelmed with depression at the same time. It
makes my self-hatred tangible - something I can hold and
feel and deal with physically, rather than trying to deal
with actual emotions. I can't get rid of something that is
so much a part of me, no matter how much I want to. I
always leave so much unsaid.