i stopped smoking for about a month but SURPRISE a few days ago i just had to start back up again because that’s how much i’ve fucking missed it. i was doing so well. what fucking ever. it’s not a lot and it’s on and off so i don’t concern myself. i don’t even need it for any kind of ounce of gratification except smelling like smoke everywhere i go, which was probably psychologically instilled in me by all the secondhand smoke from my childhood that my mom always warned me against but didn’t realize everyone else was warming me up to it.
she can’t possibly care enough anyway because she knows i smoke. i even admitted it to her. then again, i also told her i quit and maybe she believed me. and i wasn’t lying. and i really don’t smoke all too much, not even when i’m in a mood. it’s not that fact that bothers me, it’s the fact that for such explosive people, my parents are…just that. they explode, alright. and then in the aftermath, everybody forgets it. i bet if i literally overdosed on heroin in front of them, my parents wouldn’t even send me to rehab or anything. they’d just explode, show me a documentary on the dangers of heroin, and then forget it. not enough not to bring it back into conversation as backlash every once in a while. but enough for exploding once to be enough of an event not to warrant any more action. i bet if i broke my brother’s leg, my mom would come to my bedside threatening to break my arm and my dad threatening to break my other arm, and i’d scream in fear and then they’d crawl away and we’d all just get on with our lives. i don’t know why i’m connecting these dots now because it’s all happened a million times before.
if i were to write myself a self-help book directed specifically at me, it would maybe be titled “how to stop feeling mildly (or wildly) betrayed when people go to bed” or “a surprising revelation: lying down and shutting your eyes may directly lead to falling asleep: a memoir.”
it makes me fucking mad when other people get “concerned” about me, because first of all, it feels patronizing, second of all, i can fucking take care of myself and i always feel like i’m doing a pretty good job at taking care of myself, bare evidence of which to me is just the bare minimum that i am alive and not maimed and not in the hospital and not deranged to the max. however, i also really hate it when someone i deeply want to be concerned about me just never is in a way that would lead to them confronting me about it no matter what i do, maybe because the things i do are also the norm for them, and then i get it into my mind that i have to do even more and more drastic things to get them to pay attention to me, maybe like, say, make a suicide attempt that i know will only ever be an attempt. however, i know by now that that’s never going to happen because in order to attempt a suicide that i know will only ever amount to that, i will have to be confident that i will be okay, and if i end up in the hospital, that really sinks my levels of confidence, and because my body knows i must survive and my mind is part of my body, that is never going to happen.
so i’m thinking all of this and i’m making all of these mad connections until i can basically sum up every motive i’ve ever had in my life as “PLEASE NOTICE HOW MISERABLE I AM. PLEASE NOTICE HOW WRONG I AM” and i can tell you it’s worked exactly a sub zero amount of times at least in the way i would define success. to you, if you’re reading this, you know by now that everything i say is completely delusional, because i’ve just contradicted the last paragraph, but the only way i judge things is by feeling i’m just feeling my way through the dark here.
i got this whole “summing up my motives” idea from this book i’m reading that’s sort of an autobiography of one of my idols, which is kind of funny, cause the first time i skimmed it (which apparently means reading for me, because out of the 50-something pages i read today, i can definitely attest that i’ve read most of them already but i read them again), all i was thinking was 1) i wish i could be that cool, and the second time i actually went back to read it, i was now thinking 2) i am definitely cooler than you. and my autobiography that i’ll never write, because it’s better to keep secrets and clearly i’m too modest, is gonna be way prettier than yours. do i love myself now?
maybe i’ll let you live now, girl, but i’m coming for your soul, your walls better be sky-high by the time i get back around to you because i will topple them no matter what and all you can do against me is maybe stall.
i’d maybe end this with a passive aggressive comment about how i’m too much, but the truth is, i love being too much. i love knowing nobody can handle me, except me, and that makes me feel like a real fucking strong and special snowflake. sometimes, it’s kind of a shame, but i get over it by making myself into the chosen one again.
i urge all of you to just think of life as a fun video game. as a rule, you have to suffer before you can really get anywhere, so don’t let this discourage you. things you need will just pop up all around you and it’s so exciting, so try to read into everything as much as possible or you’ll miss the signs. dying is stupid, because the point is to keep fucking playing and don’t be a loser, and remember, if you end up homeless, it’s all okay because nothing’s real.
i don’t know why i’m delving into these deep dark levels of caffeine at deep dark night but they’re gonna stop my heart.
~Kasia
Tired of Earthly Concerns 