If you were expecting a happy ending story with the protagonist rising at the end and making the hero stand watching the sunrise on the rooftop, this is not a story like that.
This story only has me not drinking water for a few days because I don't want to have to move my butt up and go to the toilet.
I am always tired. Very tired, exhausted, tired, unable to breathe. If I do a self-portrait, there must be smoke coming out of my ears all the time. Knees down, limbs trembling, running on caffeine and six Coke a day. I leaned everywhere, everywhere, walking on the road with friends kept rushing into it like a drunkard. Many times when I was sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette, leaning back against the door, I slipped straight down to the floor, my knees automatically retracted, and I couldn't stand up anymore. My Versace clothes, hair and ears are dirty. I counted from 1 to 3 to wake up, then 1, 2, 3 then 300, then for the sunset and the stars I count to 3000, then in the morning, I wake up and woke up and still turned around in one place. And forever do not understand why is that so.
I found the daily showering and makeup to be like glittering glitter pink bathroom wall paint.
I'm the thigh gap between my thighs, I'm the Alexandra Wang outfit I wore yesterday. Vomiting too much, my face is chronically acne prone and I cry every time I wash my hair because I keep running my hands through my hair, falling out in patches like I'm going to cancer radiation. Fans and teenage girls keep asking me what my secret is, how do I eat my exercise diet, they say I'm a target, they want to look like their idol. I just wanted to scream how you want to look like me on the cover of the magazine, you don't even look like you. magazine cover. Photo editing software and makeup technology stabbed their self-esteem. I was originally a person with nothing to show, if it was an image on my profile, I would never have enlarged breasts to squeeze a baby's belly, but it was still an image I chose, I posted, I agree to let the world see it. It is a carefully selected, clear, and intentional reflection. Therefore, it is only a part, one side of me only, the side that I find acceptable to display. Would you like to look like me when you go to bed and go to the bathroom? Do not have sex with others. I always propagate to live true to myself, boycott exaggeratedly beautiful standards, the falsehoods are brainwashing a whole generation, but I never tell anyone that a large part of the reason I do It is because I am afraid. I am afraid the day when people meet me in real life, I am stunned because I am nothing. I would rather be ugly, and admit it bad, than accept everyone's gazes like: "Wow, it's just this?"
There are different ways of looking at a problem. You see me as a person who badly affects the environmental aesthetics, I see myself as being bad is effective in providing free birth control, so that people wont want to have children like me.
But those things, the self-deprecating actions stemming from very real feelings, became the things that helped me stand out from other hot girls in the same profession. Bad, but weirdly bad, is another thing people want to see after the mass-produced products of the salon factory. My disregard for life, precisely because I don't want to live where I don't need to know, know, or do nothing. People used words that I used to make jokes to describe me, I didn't know what to do so I couldn't help but laugh.
Ironically, my profession is translated correctly into Vietnamese as the profession of an influencer. But did I ever expect, last month I bunned my hair up on both sides because my head was flat, I did not want to wash my hair, and yet people say that it has my own personality. I do confusing tricks, even if I don't understand what I'm doing, the more curious people are, the more people want to stick their noses in what I do. Wearing high heels and flip flops because I didn't want to show anyone my feet were all cut, and too lazy to bend over and put on my shoelaces, now the press says it's always an Adidas striped flip flop and back socks. Wearing a collapsible hood, wearing a mask to cover the face, now a new trend for young people, on the street, everyone is a superstar afraid of being discovered by reporters. It's my job, I'm doing the right thing, doing it effectively, but it's really just a big irony, because if I were to choose to live any other life, I would never, never, ever. Now it's me, but everyone jumps in, learn, dig, mimic a copy of my crazy self.
I'm on the Internet starting a cry out to the world. No one heard me speak in real life, I could not open my mouth when I was given hard letters. "You are hard, you can do it, it's okay, you can't solve anything ever since." I know to tell someone that I did it 99 times but i'm still not sure for the 100th time I did it, every time it will be, experience only makes fear erode, but the danger remains the same as the first day.
I love writing, chatting, posting pictures on the Internet. My blog is my world, a place private enough to live as a pup, public enough to negotiate day in and day out about my podcasting. I keep writing, writing, writing, about everything in the world, about nothing. If a fashionista like me has a blog, it will be full of advertisements, travel photos in five-star hotels, go to events, parties, ... and my blog is self-fashion photos taken by a tripod stand. (tripod), and my own diary pages.
Initially, it was my simple and pure sharing. Then it became a simple and pure sharing between me and the world. Traffic nearly 30,000 views per day for a personal blog, a new post a month, I really do not understand what is about me that people love to hear that. Online diary pages, I share sad stories, stories about me and my family, going to the psychiatric hospital, going back to Hanoi is no longer mine ... Simple, but sometimes because it's just a cold In its simplest form, I found many people who really understood me. Depression, feeling out of place, ... are all international languages. I cry with the world, and the world cries together. I cry with the world, and the world cries together. Not everyone is sad like me, but empathy always comes from lands I haven't been to, in places I still can't believe, and people who work extravagantly for people. The "family spirit" is unbelievable. Someone just mailed me every day, asking if I got through another day. There are people who want to support me every month, contribute money to my account, even older kids who want to protect me, and these things I have never dared to accept because I never allowed myself to feel worthy. worth. However, at that time I found the power of sincerity again, an ancient miracle I thought long ago.
The sad thing is, the beginning and the end are always the same: First, I want to write to share, let everyone understand for me, to let me know the feeling that someone is really listening to me. how, even if just for a moment. At the beginning of my reputation, living easier lives, I turned out to be the one who wrote life-teaching stories: The kind I can so you can, how to turn sadness into success, and so on. and so on. Up to now, for many years, I have lived with the profession, but cannot be called a professional but I am sure I am too familiar with the smell, I wonder if anyone really understands me, does anyone really listen, or are people just "I simply care what celebrities are eating today and I am just bored."
The joke here is, sometimes people condemn me, say I often write too sad, too negative stories on social media, affecting young fans. I, if I don't even know if I talked negatively, I simply talked about the feelings of that day. Emotions are also minimal and easy to understand, Twitter has 120 limited words, and I can only laugh because if you think my tweet is negative, you will be crushed in a pile of paper I wrote about feelings How bad I felt that day. Online life is the tip of the iceberg, and at times it makes me doubt that I really lived so far away from the so-called "normal" on earth, what else do I have but exclamations encrypted.
Many times I think if this success comes from selling my soul to the devil, the devil will just call and tell me I want to pay you back.
The sadness pushes me into an unstoppable reel.
In the beginning, I knew how to suppress my weaknesses, I knew what I had to do, so sadness was just sadness, if I wanted to die, I wanted to die, and I still went out to study and do normal things like nothing happened.
Later, I knew how to make my weak point a strong point, and it made me really proud. Everyone has strengths, but everyone is delayed by their weaknesses. But if you know how to use the weak as the strong, can't you be forever, boundless? No one can rival you on this Earth, you cannot even be an enemy to you, so you go up in the momentum of doubling, multiplying, multiplying by six.
In the end, you become an addict, you rely on sadness, you have to take out your ribs and trim, and sculpt. You squeeze poetry out of sadness, to the point that now without it you don't have a single word. Especially writing a story about your life, when you see you are so calm, the blurring will come, you have nothing to write, so you have to torment yourself so that the sadness returns, so you can go home.
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Lỗi - Error 404 English Translation
Non-Fiction"Finally, my autobiography book, Error 404 is out, after 2 years of work. It actually took me only 6 months to write 99% of the book, but couldn't write the ending for a long, long time. I wrote a book about a child who was sexually abused, unhappy...
