Inane (selr) wrote in the_booth,

  • Music:

Call It Lovely

In a fit of . . . well, not rage. It's never rage. And not really depression. It's just that I feel like I have a cinder slowly burning through my throat. I'd really like to scream.

I laugh when people ask me what’s wrong. It’s like a fucking game, some of the dialogue that’s become so natural to us all.

“Hey, are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just . . . spacing out.”

Yes. Spacing out. That’s precisely what the fuck I’m doing. Staring into space, letting images play against my unconscious retina of all the mistrust and dishonesty I’ve been enduring for too long already. And it’s not like anyone expects an answer. Fuck no. What a horrible thought: actually responding to these bloody pointless repetitions.

Do you want to know what’s wrong? Of course the fuck not. No one wants to. It’s not until they all realize that you’re curled in a ball in the corner, carving lines of disgust and self-indulgent hatred into your palm, shuttering under the incessant weight of loathing. Not self-loathing. Loathing. I don’t hate myself. That’s the last thing people should believe, although that’s what they always like to. If I’m hating myself, then it’s not their problem. It’s just me, self-pitying, pathetic, pointless. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with them.

That’s why we ask the fucking question. “How are you doin’?” Translation: “You look depressed, and I’m afraid you might suspect the fact that I’m fucking around behind your back, but I really don’t want to be confronted about it because I’d hate to need to take some responsibility for my actions and need to actually make a fucking decision with who I want to be with, so please don’t actually tell me how you’re feeling.”

Maybe I’m just being self-indulgent. Self-pitying. Maybe I’m just a paranoid prick who figures that all you shits are out to get me. Maybe I’m an asshole for assuming that, just because the girl who can’t even convincingly say that she loves me anymore (no matter how fucking hard se might try) is constantly with another guy whom she’s told me that she’d like to fuck, just because she thinks, “It’d be good for him.” Maybe I’m just reading everything wrong.

Right. I’m just reading everything wrong. And I’m just fucking fine.
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