Wednesday, 10 November 2010

Being disliked.

It's sometimes exhausting, being disliked.

Being hated isn't a blanket thing, people aren't necessarily anything but lovely, just because they dislike you. Most people are not cunts, that's what it comes down to. And so when they hate you but they know you're tapped, they'll pretend not to so that you don't go hang yourself and list them in your suicide note. Or maybe just they don't hate you, but they'd rather you weren't around, with your words and your vodka and your attention seeking. So they don't tell you, because the only way you could not be around now is through your stock pile of pills, and they don't want that, either- think of the disruption. And then you have to pretend that you don't know that they hate you, whilst all the time you just really want to sit them down and either agree with them what an awful person you are, or try to explain away all your faults, by way of the disease. The past. Your social anxiety and subsequent over-compensation. Whilst always always always agreeing with them in your head, about what an annoyance, what a stupid little girl you are.

I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm the most disliked person I know. In other news, I've eaten more in the last couple of days than I had in the couple of weeks beforehand (and I haven't been hardcore restricting... I've just eaten A LOT the last few days) and I am very, very, very fat. Also, my hand is deformed and I like Munch Bunch yogurts a lot. But I don't like the word yogurt with an H in it.

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