Attempt

I am writing this to try and express myself, because that’s what I need to do more, apparently.

I don’t know if I am so capable of that any more. Nowadays, when I feel intensely emotional, I just get very nauseous. The past couple of weeks – or maybe for about a month now – I’m not too sure what’s happened to me. Whatever it is, it’s cleverly subtle – it’s not at all paced or regular. Happy times become far too prominent in my memory. I hung out with A--- (a good friend of S---) last Saturday and it is still burned into my memory. Part of me fears that I’m getting a bit attracted to him, because of the way I am at the moment. I read a text by Tzvetan Todorov, which is basically a theoretical text on the fantastic in literature. He talks about how very young children, druggies and mentally-ill people (chiefly psychotics and schizophrenics especially) find the limits between physical and spiritual matter (or somesuch) merging. This is what forms a key part of the supernatural element in fantastic texts. That is how I feel at the moment. I feel like I have become very permeable, so that everything penetrates me with even more force than usually. Perversely enough, all this does is make me reject life even more. I hate people. I hate my life. I got the Central line yesterday, after uni, as usual, and instead of reading Todorov or listening to music, I just stared into space. The carriage was packed, and I was kept close to the side where the doors don’t open between Mile End and Holborn. I was so close, it was fascinating. I looked at the yellow line and thought about what it might be like to tip backwards when the doors opened. I think it was at Chancery Lane, I looked at the gap between the wall of the tunnel and the side of the train. The size of it captivated me. I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be squashed between there. How would you die? Would you die? What would be the use if you didn’t? It made me smile.

I feel like I’ve become slightly more provocative. I don’t feel like humouring people’s feelings. I don’t care about them. Being all alone while other people in my French / Modern Languages classes are all chummy together still hits me, but I feel even less like talking to them. I hate them for the effort they would exact from me. People are fucking stupid, dull, hypocritical, selfish morons. I am not sacrificing anything for anyone. I wish I could die. I do not want to have any links to anyone. People are such useless, inconstant things. Everyone has to go and live their own fucking life – well, go on. The world does not have time for the likes of me; I know that. But who cares? It’s just as Cee-lo says in the song of the same name – who cares? I’d like to melt a bit and feel all like a bit of attention from my boyfriend and/or my cousin would make a difference. Maybe it would. The thought of it makes me feel sick. I don’t feel able to relate to my boyfriend at the moment. The thought of him confuses me too much. Any kind of sexual desire (HA!) usually lasts about 2 minutes – literally. No fire in these loins! Not even a spark. He irritates the hell out of me, to be honest. My bad mood will infect him, and besides, he’s got his own life and problems (fucked-up finger to worry about). I feel like cutting myself off from him completely – let him continue to live his separate life. I don’t see how the gulf between us can be negotiated. I am a totally different person to the one he fell for.

My family – let’s not even go there. Living torture is the best way I will describe it. Being a female is only another disadvantage. It makes me feel cold and really sick. I cannot be anyone’s mother and I don’t want to be anyone’s wife or mother-in-law. I hate the thought of sacrificing myself for others. Fuck you, if you’re so bothered about what to eat, go to a fucking restaurant. Get take-away. Hire a maid. Don’t ask me, I’d rather die. I wish it would just happen already. I wish I could deaden my mind and die peacefully to all the things that trouble me. If I live, I will become my sister, always stressing and whining about everything with cessation. If I die, I might get some peace. I wish I cared enough to take an overdose. I kind of wish someone would just murder me already. That’d at least be an interesting way to go.

I can just imagine people’s eyebrows raising, thinking “Oh, how selfish.” Oh, how fucking selfish indeed. Go fuck yourselves. What amazing merits have people shown me, that I should cling to them? Why should I trail round after them, in constant need of reassurance, while they try and bat me off to live their own lives? I'm bored of being a reliable coper. 'You'll get through. You'll get through.' FUCK YOU, NO, I WON'T! What do you say to THAT, eh?

I hate them. I hate them all. I hate you all. Humankind is a stupid, self-contradictory mess which will always damn itself when it looks like there might be hope. We don’t need a God to blame for the mistakes we make. Fucking morons. To Hell with us all.