Oh, What A Wonder It Is To Be A Nostalgic Doormat

I don't know why I allow her to do this to me, or why I refuse to listen to that voice in my head. The one that reminds me of her past deeds, the one that remembers and never forgets. The one I always promise I will listen to next time the opportunity presents itself.

The one I continue to ignore regardless.

She's known me for a long time. I guess that means she knows what makes me tick--the things that bother me, my reactions to certain things. Despite her perceivable oblivious state, I know she is aware of what she's doing on some level and what it is in turn doing to me.

She's so manipulative, always trying to butter me up with fake smiles and even faker claims of comraderie. I see what she's doing, I always see it.

Why do I let her do it, though?

All she does is use me.

She said she was sorry. She knew I was irritated.

I was glad for the sunglasses because often when I'm really angry, the tears come. They did well, but fortunately, did not fall.

So yeah. She said she was sorry. I said, "Well clearly you're not sorry enough."

If she truly felt bad, she wouldn't have asked. If she cared about my feelings at all, she wouldn't have put me through that.

We've known each other for years. She's been my oldest friend, but honestly, I think it's about time our friendship ended.

I keep bothering to hang out with her because I keep entertaining my feelings of nostalgia. This seems to be a huge issue for me--living in the past. She isn't the only friend I continue bothering with just because I can remember the good times.

Well you know what? Fuck you. Fuck you all.

Because you don't care about me and I sure as hell shouldn't care about you.

Blackened Heart

I feel sick and hot. Everytime I take off my jacket, I get these chills that shake my whole frame. I feel like there's this tornado in my stomach swirling and swirling and peeling off chunks of my insides as it swirls.

I felt it last night. Inspiration I guess. I was reading a story about painting and I just had this urge to paint something. It was strange, like this weird wave washing through my veins.

I hated that I had to ignore it in favor of writing the second draft of my English essay.

I was so happy when I found out two out of my three classes weren't meeting the next day. I came home instead of staying at school to play pool. I still had that strange wave of inspiration and I rode it out, painting for the first time in what seems like ages, right before going to work.

The painting looked good. Better than I expected it to turn out. Perhaps it's the subject.

I painted this picture I found online. I've had this picture saved to my computer for a long time.

In this picture, this girl is looking down, her face almost entirely concealed by her hair and in shadow. On the left side of her chest is this black heart that drips red blood down her shirt. She's wearing headphones.

I feel like her posture is one of acceptance. She has given up, has decided that there is no point to life. Her heart is dead and she'll continue to listen to the music that keeps her pain alive until there is nothing left to bleed.

I haven't painted the heart yet. I had to leave for work, but mostly I'm afraid of ruining the painting.

So I went to work and I stayed out to play pool and I just...feel like the biggest idiot.

Amidst all this artist crap and daydreams of staring out onto a beautiful scene in France with a paintbrush in hand, I missed something important.

I was careless.

I missed an exam for one of my classes. Exams are worth 60% of our total grade.

I don't know if it's possible to pass if I miss one. I don't know. Maybe? It seems logical when thinking of the percentages... I think I can get a B if I get perfect grades on everything else?

I feel like such an idiot.

I actually cried. I mean, not full on sobbing, but there were tears.

Like my friend who calls me his non-friend could be seriously considering death and I'm sitting here crying over missing a goddamn test.

What is wrong with me?

Why did I say that to him?

He was being an ass. That's a given. But that didn't give me the right to joke like that.

I need to remember he isn't me. He doesn't joke about that type of shit all the time. He doesn't imagine it all the time.

If he says he's going to do it, then he's actually considering it and that's just scary.

We've grown distant. I feel like I've lost something. Like I have nothing and I'm just wandering.

I want to blame him for saying to me everything that I'm feeling because he makes the words real.

When they were abstract, when they were just words spoken by a voice in my head, I could call it being self-depricating. I could reason that none of the claims were true, just that I was a really critical person, especially toward myself.

But when he said them, when he takes the time to make sure I know they are facts...

It just hurts.

Like I've never really felt a chest pain in the emotional sense. Sure I get those weird body aches, but there never seems to be anything emotionally wrong at the time.

What I mean is that a person's words have never made my chest literally hurt.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be literal. I'm not sure.

I just...I don't really feel anything. I don't know, maybe I do.

But how do you know?

My only inclination seems to be guilt. I feel guilty all the time, so I must be capable of feeling.

I mostly just feel empty.

The Evils of Nostalgia.

Thinking about the past hinders the truth. You either paint everything in a far too negative light or a far too positive one.

Most of the time when I think of my past, the light is red. But recently...it has been green.

Feeling terribly bored, I decided to reacquaint myself with a long lost friend. I remembered all of the stupid stuff we used to do and all of the imaginitive games we would create to help alleviate our boredom. I remembered how she accepted the strange things I would come up with, like having tea parties involving minature--possibly barbie themed--china, Girl Scout's Ole Ole's (sp?), Pepsi, and very crummy British accents.

I would smile at these memories, wishing I could do those types of things now. The solution was obvious. Hang with the person who doesn't mind your weirdness. The person who doesn't look at you like you ate some funky mushroom. The person who often encourages the bizarre ideas.

What a stupid idea that was.

Dwelling on the past blinds you to the truth. You're either too busy hating your old life to remember the good times, or you're too busy reliving the glory days to realize the reason you stopped hanging out with said person.

It doesn't feel good being used.

Everyone has one of those friends, I'm sure. The friend who showers you with compliments while slyly sliding in a request here or there. The friend who knows exactly how to spin you to get you to agree to whatever the hell they want. The friend who is real in all their fakeness.

That's why the past stays in the past. Otherwise you neglect memories and forget things that helped shape an experience.

Stupid nostalgia.

The Tortoise and the Hare.

Although I cannot recall the entire tale, I do remember one of the key points.

Throughout the race, the hare is ahead of the tortoise--taunting him and his slow pace. The hare becomes over confident, cocky even, and eventually loses the race.

I feel like the hare.

My whole life I've been one of those people that excells. I never needed to study and the good grades just came with ease. People would praise me often and despite my self-depricating thoughts and comments, a small part of me believed them.

For years I worked hard, though not as hard as I could have. I would do whatever it took to get things done. I would stay up into the wee hours of the morning just to finish a simple assignment. Simple as in not terribly important.

I watched the people around me struggle and always wondered why the easiest concepts seemed so difficult to them. I couldn't understand how they could just leave everything to chance and abandon things with the excuse of "not feeling like doing it."

I always had that end in sight--my freedom. I longed for it--longed to know what it was like to be away from all of the silly issues that surrounded me each day. I wanted to achieve the ultimate success and was always so sure that I would reach that success. That I would taste it.

But once the time came, everything just seemed to...descend.

No longer did I feel determined, giving into the whinings of my id and claiming the title of procrastinator.

I watched with knowing eyes as everything went downhill and although it was in my power to stop it...I didn't. I didn't do a damn thing.

I watched my future burn to the ground. I felt the flames of failure eating away at me like a corrosive acid. But I did nothing.

Even now, the day after tomorrow so to speak, I just let the smoke and ash suffocate me.

I don't even try to relieve any of the pain. I just bask in it and ask the same rhetorical question over and over.

What went wrong?

PS: I probably spelled "tortoise" wrong, but fuck me. I'm not going to look it up. (And we'll see how long that screw it attitude lasts. Like the fucking perfectionist could just leave it alone...)