Cold, and broken, yes. But no hallelujah in sight. 2002-11-16 - 11:00 p.m.
I've decided that I need a crutch. Something bad that I need to start doing to match my overwhelming state of loserliness and failure as a person. I need to frame my fucking diploma and hang it over the toilet, at least. After that I should throw my flute in the nearest garbage dump and leave it there. Every stupid award I've won and every 'A'-filled report card from second grade on needs to be torched in a beautiful bonfire. The same with all my pictures of friends and family. Why would they notice if I've forgotten them? In my lack of perfection, they don't remember me. I need to smash every one of my CDs into a thousand pieces, especially the CDs of my junior and senior recitals, because they are simply begging for it. That stupid rose, given to me as a senior music major, that one that I kept for absolutely no reason, needs to be shredded and fed to my cat like the dead thing it is. I should quit the stupid, pointless, ass-kissing festival that I call a retail job. I should pick up my next paycheck and tear it up in the nearest manager's face.
I should do all of this, and acquire a crutch. A habit, a disease, an addiction, anything that allows me to be justified in being the miserable loser that I am. Not the shadow of "perfection" that I was, the sweet, nice little girl, the show-offy flute player, the brain. Sarah. None of that matters now, because I'm not those things anymore. So if I was able to become a crack addict, a raging alcoholic, a Republican, an ignorant religious zealot, something- I'd have a crutch. A reason to be a loser. As silly as it sounds, I feel like taking my face and rubbing it raw against a broken sidewalk. Kind of like skinning your knee when you fall off your bike. Except my entire face.
Don't worry, being the spineless, scaredy-cat jellyfish that I am, there's no way I'm going to head to the nearest crack house to get my fix (I'm pretty sure there's one on the next street, but oh well :-P). And it's pretty cold outside, so I'm not going to rub my face on the sidewalk or anything. So forgive me my impassioned rant about nothing. Nothingness. Pain. The void. Whatever. I just wish someone was here. I wish I could understand with my puny, simple little mind what I did to become invisible.