what about me?
that's all i ask.
when will i be relevant again?
i wasn't made for this life,
this drabness outside of the spotlight.
it's agony.
the cold, dark, damp area away from the glow of popularity.
it's enough to make me vomit.
i need to be included,
somehow, some way.
i like to indulge myself in things that don't apply to me
or better yet,
things that contradict me splendidly.
i am reading a book about caring for your children.
i don't have children.
i am not a mommy or a daddy.
i have a dog.
does he count?
but i've grown fond of that book.
the complex language that my pretty little teenage head can't swallow,
the complete and total dissection of the adult and child mind,
and the overuse of the words
sexual promiscuity,
drug abuse,
and suicide.
world-ending,
parent-ending
things they are.
because if you are a whore, you do not deserve love.
so it's best to steer away from things like that,
otherwise
you will bring about the apocalypse.
and you will not be forgiven.
