I spoke too soon. I tend to do that. I should consider not speaking at all. If only I didn’t get bored immediately from not speaking. I do wish I observed more, I won’t fucking lie. Observing is power. Being good at math is also power. I wish I could observe and subtract. Whatever. Believing in me and David was just my nervous system responding to the very true trajectory of my being alone. You gotta think, my grandma was alone for most of her life, and my mother is following suit. I come from a long line of women who grew up without fathers and lived alone. I need to just accept that my time is coming and it’s coming up quick.
I’m the first daughter. Special. I wish it felt special. It feels like a burden. A burden I don’t even live up to properly. Just ask my siblings. I refuse to let others burden me. But I’m the ultimate pest. I got into some adult high school drama this morning. David first. Becca second. What a pair. They should honestly date. I mean, I can’t decide who would eat who first? I guess, I believe in David more. Plus he’s generally more sober. But really, both can go get fucked.
I’m back to dreams of becoming a cis male. I don’t want to be a trans man. No offense, guys. But I’m sure, it’s offensive as fuck anyway. Nope, I just want the social perks. Take David for example: He’s jobless, basically homeless because I have the house for now since he’s self-banished at his parents’ suburban home. He’s only 5’7, thinning hair, and yet, a beautiful black woman who helps deliver babies into this world every day wants his dick. How does that math out? Don’t ask me, I can’t subtract, remember?
I don’t pick winners because winners don’t want me. But David doesn’t even have to try. There will always be a woman so much better than him to either cage or try to catch with a butterfly net. And they will humor him, even suck his dick once, twice, even. I hate our society. I want out. R.I.P. Hayden Panetiere, I know you were just one of the many byproducts to why I feel like emotional shit after eating fast food.
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