Why why why why why

 

Occasionally the word hate comes in and is repeated a half dozen times, for whatever reason. I wish I wouldn’t, but I guess it’s better to babble nonsense when I’m by myself than any other time.

 

I tried to sleep, but it stopped me.

I went straight upstairs and did my going-to-sleep routine, only to have it ruined by strings of words that I don’t quite understand (at least I did not vomit on my floor this time) and tried to stifle by putting things on my face. All that accomplished was making me hot and preventing my breathing. So I read and finished the last story in one book and read a whole second book and was about thirty pages into the third one when I had to make myself put it down, put out my candles, and go do something that would maybe make it stop.

 

 

Now I’m writing nonsense again. Isn’t that fun?

And if you can’t hear it (you can’t), you should read those lines with a very bitter tone of voice.

 

Only last week I had my hair cut off (I mentioned this previously), and now it is brown-black. I was curious. I have wondered for months what it would look like on me, and I guess I know now.

 

I don’t know if I like it, but at least I did it and found out.

 

I liked what she said to me about it though, but I find myself wondering how to go about befriending this girl I know from work…it’s probably the worst idea I’ve had in ages, but I keep wondering about it.

 

 

I’m deplorable.

 

 

I did not think about that very much when I was reading. Not at first.

I hated most the stories in the book I finished. I expected more from a book of horror stories…I was not horrified. Except by the last story, and then it wasn’t so much that the plot horrified me…but it was told so well and in a style I so enjoy and said so many things that I myself have wondered…I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. But it was about a suicide. I was a little horrified about that. There went my moment of enjoyment.

 

 

 

The second book was short and from my childhood and had crayon scribbles in it (apparently when I made my siblings mad, they would exact revenge on me by colouring in my books…I’d forgotten they did that). I did not like it on this reading, but I can see where it must’ve influenced me. I got an award in elementary school for writing a story about a plane crash. The narrator in my story talked a lot like Hank the Cowdog.

 

 

 

Then I closed the book and a string of words came out again and I held the book hard so my fingers hurt. I was deeply upset that all the things that people used to use as excuses for distancing themselves from me are apparently still there. I wish I were more likable. I don’t understand exactly what it is that people want from me. I don’t understand why they take my self-doubt and my tendency to feel like I can’t do anything right, and act like I’m purposefully making them feel these things about themselves. I don’t understand i don’t understand and i wish i could just make anyone happy with me.
I put the book away and got up and got a new one, since I was still not able to go into sleep mode.

 

And I read and remembered that I should not read that book either because of who is in it, but I’d already started and all I could begin to think was that I didn’t understand still and I wondered where I’ve gone. I don’t think I would know myself if I went back. But I’m still here…which is why I can’t read some of my books without knowing all over again, and which is why I can’t try and befriend Abbie.

 

I’m not upset about the dog blanket. I wasn’t upset about it until you got that look on your face and I felt like maybe it was an insult after all…no no no no. I know better than that. It wasn’t an insult. It was because I’m not the only one who remembers………I have to believe that.

 

 

We mentioned my bouts of poor memory, and it’s true…it’s annoying as hell, but there are things I will remember for the rest of my life. I don’t wish I could forget anymore, or, I try not to. Instead, I just sleep under a red dog blanket and hope and hope and hope that you remember and it hurts you, too. I’m not vindictive, I swear. I just like to think that it hurts so that I won’t be the only one.

 

 

I can’t wait until I get to that book review. Maybe I will argue what I should have argued in my class, where even my professor failed and failed to see a last-minute bit of symbolism that went against 90% of the conclusions I read about that book…but I said nothing because I assumed I was the only one who saw it that way, and who am I to go against decades of scholarship?

 

 

 

I’ve considered posting a story I wrote. Would you like that?

 

 

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