Stolen Pages

Page 59// Rage

I am the problem. It's not even a question anymore. It's just, pretty much a conclusion I guess? I'm clingy. I'm annoying. I'm possessive. I have severe trust issues. I'm more than insecure and my inability to easily deal with humans doesn't make this whole ordeal and easier.

Every time I lost a friend because they just stopped talking to me or we just weren't the same anymore or I was always just left hanging, I kind of accepted it as something that didn't work out because stuff like that happens. Because it has always been me. I am the problem here. I am the selfish, jealous, irritable piece of shit that never really fit in. I don't fit in. I don't have anyone who'd waste a whole day with me, well, Chase would, but this is not about Chase.

This is about the loneliness that fills me up when I'm alone. This is about me and the outside world. About how little the world around me cares for me.

Honestly, I've kind of had it with everyone who pretends like they care about me as a little more than an extra. In a way they're not wrong. I am just some extra who can sometimes be useful. Sometimes I wish I could tell them how I really feel. But without having to deal with the consequences because I still need them to tolerate me. I am an outsider but it's nice to pretend like I'm not.

I wish I could drunk rant but without being drunk. No, I would like to be in full control of my senses. I want to feel the electric rush of courage as I finally accept that I am alone and at least some part of me is okay with it because being alone is at least slightly better than feeling like an outsider whole trying not to be an outsider.

Dear reader, if you're one of them. If you're one of my friends, don't tell me that. Don't pretend like you care about me. Don't return this book to me.

Because knowing that you've seen through me will break me. I am empty. I am broken. I am hateful.

Let's never speak of this in person. Let's never look into each other's eyes and talk about our opinion of each other.

P.S. If it is Melody Walden, I want you to know that you fucking sucked and that I recognize that. I always have.

I liked her this way. She had a spark of madness in her. The scribble like caricatures her words had devolved into. The way her pen sank into the paper here. It looked like she had rage in her veins. Pouring out as ink.

I was pleased. Knowing that the two of us weren't so different in the end. She had more emotion in her words and something about that raw emotion, pettiness even, made me feel like I wanted to know her.

It was stupid. But I did.