Entry 0003

I think that everything is about me. It’s so stressful. Somehow it all relates to me, flows back into me and makes me smarter or dumber or crazier the instant I realize it. Here is a perfect example of this happening to me-So I am minding my own business and I am reading tweets and this girl writes, If you think you are pretty, you aren’t. What a horrible thing to say to the entire world out loud. Why is she so angry? What did I ever do to her? Mind you,she did not address the tweet to anyone and I do not know her personally, nor have I ever spoken to her but I think her tweet was about me. I think that I am pretty. Well sometimes anyway. Rarely, but it happens. Every blue moon I will take a photo at a good angle and then when I look at it and I think, If I were not the woman in this picture I would think this woman was pretty. Or other times, I will put on way too much makeup and think that’s pretty if the lighting is right. I actually don’t think I’m pretty at all. I only ever notice my flaws. I have one jaw, my left jaw, that seems to be fuller than the right jaw, like my cheek banged against my mom’s pelvic bone when she had me or something. My eyes are huge, like a doe and people lie to me and tell me that I have bedroom eyes and I know it means that they think I am unattractive and they want to come up with cute sayings to try and make me feel better. It always looks like I am surprised or excited because they are so big and bulbous. My nose is okay, I mean it wouldn’t look right on anyone else but with all my other freaky facial features it just sort of goes. I hate my skin. I love my skin color, a nice sepia caramel tone, and it looks good against sun-bright yellows and other warm colors but I don’t like the texture of it, I can’t seem to ever keep it clear no matter what I do. Somewhere there is always a dark spot or a shadow or a pimple or black head or something that makes me look ashy or sickly all of the time. No matter how much make up I cake on I can’t take the fact that I still know, underneath all that bullshit, the blemish is still there. Getting bigger and filthier and greasier by the minute. Making me uglier and keeping me lonelier. And now I hate the bitch for what she tweeted and I sub-tweet about her all of the time after that because who the fuck does she think that she is? I haven’t even seen her picture but she most certainly has low self esteem to attack every woman in the world. And she probably pays no attention to my backlash at all. Why would she? I’m sure she tweeted that and then just went on with her life, like nothing happened and who cares anyway she probably thinks no one reads them but her dumb ass classmates in whatever high school from hell she attends. That’s how stupid she is. I wish that I knew her number so that I could call her on the phone and just ask her if the tweet was about me and if it wasn’t couldn’t she just put a name on her tweets so people don’t get the wrong idea? This is the main reason that I hate jokes. They are mini wars. Little attacks at your life, toothpick sized swords aimed at your heart. Blood leaking out little by little, tiny drizzles from pin holes everywhere and you don’t even notice that you’re dying. I mean I find some things funny, for a second, and then I dissect them and uncover the horrible meanness and sadness underneath. Think about someone falling.  Isn’t that funny? I guess but why isn’t it funny when they are lying on a stretcher afterward with a broken collar bone? Maybe that is funny too and I just don’t get humor. I think about this and I feel terribly. I don’t laugh because apparently I take things too seriously, according to my ex. How is someone getting hurt, or kicked, or hit or thrown, funny? When people tell jokes about how ugly or deformed or sad or stupid they are its like they are falling in front of a train. People laugh but once its out there, then it is no longer funny and I feel badly for the person who said it. Do they really feel that way about fat people? Do they think that they are fat and so they made the joke to try and make themselves feel better about it? Were they trying to connect with other “fat people haters” by making the comment so they could feel as if they belonged somewhere and have something in common with other prejudiced people? I don’t know. I am careful about what I laugh at in public. To me laughing is just like crying. Same thing. Its like you’re hurting inside and your body is making noises to indicate the level of pleasure you are getting from the fact that someone else is in pain and not yourself. What you laugh at is what you are.People sound insane when they laugh. I listen to Desmond laugh through my cubicle wall. He is always on the phone with a client and every single one of them must be comedians because he laughs all day long at every stupid thing they utter. His laughs sound canned. Like he bought them wholesale from a store on line. If I did not know that it was Desmond and I did not know that he was laughing I would be certain there was a creepy alien cow type creature next to me making inane utterances to it’s god for mercy. Elizabeth covers her mouth when she laughs. Its almost like she is embarrassed of her own face or perhaps she knows she should not be laughing at the comment but she is going to laugh at it anyway so that no one realizes what sort of bitch she truly is.She probably doesn’t get the joke half of the time and thinks covering her mouth looks dainty.I tell the best jokes and stories though. I watch when other people do it and then I know I can do it because if they can I can. I watch lots of stand ups and pay attention to when they roll their eyes or pause. I can sometimes even mock their accents which makes it more funny for the listeners if I sound just like them when I say it. People gather around me like children in front of a campfire and listen to me make up things for hours. I will admit that I love the attention. I love scanning the crowd to see if there is someone not paying attention to me and then I go stand right next to that person, or nudge them or touch them on the shoulder. It feels like we are bonding, like I like them more than anyone else, like I care, somehow. My jokes are always call back jokes from something that I said before and they become catchphrases around the office or with my friends and they all laugh at everything I say and as soon as they do I feel extremely good for a split second because it is fun to know that you have captured the attention of someone who could be doing anything in the world other than listening to you but then afterward, immediately afterward, I hate them. I hate every last one of them. I am just their entertainment. They don’t like me, I just amuse them. I’m disposable when the mood strikes.And the worst of it all is when someone new comes along, someone funnier, some one with more interesting stories and I have to be quiet and listen like the rest of them. I have to fade into the audience and get nudged by the speaker. Being funny or having any kind of personality at all is like saying to the world, I’m ugly and unfuckable. Its hard to decide who to be. So I chose to have a personality because my skin is never perfectly clear and I have that one lumpy cheek that swells up when I smile so it looks like I’m kind of sneering. I guess it would be nice if everyone would just shut up and then I wouldn’t think that everything was about me all of the time and I could just go about my day, observing in silence. Regular animals don’t talk. Nothing to talk about. They just shit, eat, sleep, fuck, bang on things and kill stuff. They play, but they don’t gossip or sub-tweet.  They don’t write jokes or tell stories or dictate fucking twenty page memos about bullshit that no one cares about. They don’t have time for any of that because they know what we refuse to accept. We’re all gonna be dead soon.

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