The unbearable lightness of being.

AP exams are over. Does that mean it's time for my facebook back? I don't know if I want it back.
Eh. I'll probably get it back.

You know what I hate? Calling in favors. Asking for stuff. Making speeches about why I'm the best candidate ever and everyone is great but they're really, actually, shitty in comparison and if you were a bright young thing like they say you are, you all are, bright young beautiful things, then you would very clearly be able to see that. So cast your vote. If you don't vote for me, then you're a miserable fuck with no valuable sense of fore-, in- or hind-sight.
That was not explicitly mentioned in My Speech.
But you can bet considerable amounts of money that it was implied. Carefully hidden within clammy palms and impromptu messages about Picnic Club. Didn't you know Picnic Club is synonymous to vote for me because I'm quirky and I deserve it? Oh and I love organizing. (laugh) I mean I really love organizing. (light chuckle) I would fuck it before I would fuck Michael Phelps. And who the fuck wouldn't fuck Michael Phelps? That's why I should be president. (smile, broadly, that is.)


Dear Daddy,
If I ask for something, you should just give it to me.
Dear Daddy,
Please don't make me beg. I know you know I won't. But apparently this time I will. Because desperate times calls for doing stupid shit and compromising everything.
Dear Daddy,
Fuck you. You make me feel ridiculously small.
Dear Daddy,
Please stop. I'm right here. Linda's not here, but she's here. Or at least, she's certainly not there. Don't go. Please stop. We're all right here. We're all waiting.

In other news.

I love nice people. But I hate them too. Can you just shut the fuck up and make me feel like shit? Tell me what I'm doing is not okay and then immediately after go back to being wonderful. No not you, mom. You've already told me that whatever I'm doing to you was not okay, is not okay, will never be okay. But everyone else. Tell me I'm shitty and mean it. And keep saying it until I get it. But as soon as I believe it, you better treat me like I'm fucking wonderful. That would make me feel better. Can you do that for me? You said anything, right? Wait. Don't tell me I'm shitty. Tell me I'm wonderful because then I look for reasons why I'm shitty. If you told me I was shitty, I would look for reasons why I'm wonderful.
Wait. Don't tell me anything. Tell me a joke.

Long post tonight. I always have more to say when I'm alone. Which makes sense. Because the only person I can talk to is myself. Excluding God. But nobody was thinking about You anyway. Be careful, dear reader. My soliloquoy is starting to turn into a dialogue.