Someone has the same story title as me. It's fine because I couldn't care less about that shit story. Their story is better than anything I ever type could be. They have a way of putting indescribable feelings into words and. I don't know. They haven't updated in three years though. Sad.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm not on my period. I'm not hungry. My mother says those are the only reasons I should be sad. And I know. I know should be grateful. This boy in my class doesn't even have a mother. But. It's gone beyond sadness. It's just. Empty. Numb.
And I can't stand it. There's this nauseating ringing in my ears and sometimes my hands don't feel like mine and everything gets blurry. I feel so out of control. And it leaves this constant discomfort in the pit of my stomach.
You probably think I think of myself as some sort of wonderful unrecognized talent. I don't. I know I'm an awful writer. I just. I don't know.
Maybe if someone answered my questions or said hi I would temporarily feel better about myself. This isn't asking you to do so. It's simply somewhat explaining why I do what I do I think. See? I don't even know why I do anything anymore.
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