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.

I'm going to get back to my hiding now.

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