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There Were 50 Worms in His Belly

I know, I know, third one tonight in a row. I suppose I could edit one of the other ones I posted tonight, but I really don't feel like it. I just feel like letting some shit out without having to bother with anything else. I love writing about how I feel. Hell, I love writing about just about anything. Someday, when I have an actual career instead of just a job, I'm going to publish a book. That has been my dream since I was little.

I've always wanted to be a writer. But sometimes I think about how full of life and energy I was back then. After you throw kids into the mix, sometimes it's hard sitting down at the end of the day and actually writing something worth a damn.

Sometimes, I think about how I use to write or post on the internet even.... I use to be random and funny. I use to attract people's attention. Now I just sit here, knowing that because of my OCD, the 5 views I got from another blog was all me looking at my post and going, 'I don't know if I like that font.' Sometimes it sucks.

Somewhere along the way I lost that funny outgoing girl I use to know who didn't care if people thought one way or another about her because she still had friends. Now I've got three close friends and that's it. Some others try, but I just reject them because I don't trust them.

Maybe it all really does boil down to trust. God that sucks, realizing so suddenly that I've become this boring young old maid for nothing because people in this world suck and the only one you can ever trust is yourself.

No one else is worth a damn. Half of my friends would fuck any man married or not as long as they thought it would benefit themselves in some way. Hell, my own sister got knocked up in an abandoned trailer at a bonfire party with a guy who was barely 18 (and 4 years younger than her) who she hadn't known longer than 15 minutes when she decided to spread her legs. No, this was all her fault. She made that choice, and there were plenty of other options. Just because she's a lying, back-stabbing, shit-talking, drama-queen cunt doesn't mean that I am.

I might be a bitch, but fucking hell, I've been trying really hard to work on that. It doesn't mean that I can talk to T any more than I have, but I'm making progress. B is the only one I can talk to and I really think of him as a brother sometimes. Well, that's how I cover up the fact that I might just love him on some deeper level as well. I don't know about that and if I start to think about it, I might just say or do something stupid. So we won't go there.

I need to go to bed. I'm damn tired. Everything makes me tired. I work so hard to make things better, and as soon as something starts looking up, everything falls back down.