And You Lied To The Angels

I want to cry.

Maybe that's a little too vague. I want to scream. Rant, rave, throw a dozen different things across the room, collapse onto the ground and start sobbing, hide in bed for a few days, then shape up and get back to the little game of Life.

I'm sure some of you are wondering where the heck this all came from, so suddenly. To be honest, I'd have to say I've done it again. I let every little thing in my life grow and mutate behind my back, and now it's the the fire-breathing dragon that's got me shaking in my shoes, ducking for cover. Everything's out of my hands, and yet everyone tells me I have the power to fix it right here, right now. What a load of crap. How can I fix what is clearly not even within reach, even if I stretch as far as I can? It's just not possible.

Let's start with something less dramatic of the bunch: schooling. I've spent almost the last whole year trying to figure out what the heck I'm supposed to do with my life. Deadlines are approaching, my father's reminding me about them every single day with that look that says 'You'd best know what to do with your life, and soon'. My mother's asking me now, my brothers, sister, friends who are just coming back from their first year at college. My answer? I still have no freaking clue. Yet I'm supposed to be going off to school next year? Really? Now the hell am I going to go off to college when I don't even have a clear idea of what I want to do with my life?

Sure, I mean, I could go for what I want to do, which is writing. But realistically, how is that something to keep myself financially stable? Granted, my parents have both stressed I will always have a home here, in their house, but I'm 19. I don't want to be home all the time under their eyes. Who does? Who wants to have their parents judging their every move while they go through some of the hardest years of their lives as the develop into an adult? Sure, I could go off, maybe get my book done, and if I was really lucky, make something off of it. But the market is slim out there now, and everything is coming out with vampires, vampires, and yeah, vampires. So where does my book fall into place when it's got the same thing? So my writing's different, great, but will that be such a huge difference? If the average reader browsing through B&N is anything like me, I'm screwed. I pick up a book, and if the first few pages don't get me, or even the jacket of the book, I put it down and never look at it again. Prejudiced, I know, but it's honestly how most people choose a book. I generally don't read anything unless a friend suggested it, or I'm right there, the book's right there, and I'm going to die of boredom after counting the ceiling tiles for the fifth time.

So yeah, that monster certainly has me hyperventilating.

Then take my standard issue of failing at connecting with any of the male species outside my computer. After my little episode with my friend, he's spoken to me, although it's few and far wide. We don't talk at night anymore. And you know what? It feels like a white-hot knife has been jabbed into my chest and is just lingering there, infecting me one cell at a time. This is where I want to start screaming. I've been playing good and holding my composure, acting like nothing's wrong and being myself, and yes, there are moments were truly everything is fine and dandy. But the moment I begin to dwell on him, oh boy, it's like the barrel of monkeys got loose. Moments like these make me start to freak out. Maybe it's me. It's got to be me. I must be some kind of freak if I can't even manage something with someone locally, let alone online. What's wrong with me?

To be honest, I wish I knew. And don't give me that 'you just haven't found the right one' horse-crap. I get that enough, and you know what, it's not comforting one freaking bit.

I'm sure I am at most blame here, though. Why? Because it's who I am. I know myself better than anyone, considering I've only clung to this pile of skin and bones for nineteen years, and when you stick with the same sack of flesh for that long, you learn things about yourself you're not proud of. I'm not talking physical features, I'm speaking mentally and emotionally. I know for a fact that I'm an over emotional, clingy-attention-craver. Not something I'm proud of, but I accept it. It gets me into a lot of trouble at times, like when I assume something because of one person's actions, when my assumption isn't even close to the real situation at hand. But other times it's helped, like when I've been open and honest with people about how I've felt and why it hurt me in the way it did. It's a horrendous double-edged sword, particularly in the romantic department. While I seek love and compassion, most males I meet want something physical, something emotionless. Something I can't do.

So fine. I could say that's their problem, and move onto the next guy.

So what happens when every guy is like that?

What do I do then?

Honestly, I feel like I'm at the end of my rope. I can only take so much pounding on my heart and head before I crumble under the pressure. Already I can feel pieces of my chipping off while I crawl back into the hole I found myself sitting in back in my junior year of High School. It's not much, just a small dark abyss, but it holds enough space to let me thrash about while I start to scream.

Hopefully it doesn't echo.