of happiness.

I need to lose weight.
Then I’ll be happy.

I need to take more risks.
Then I’ll be happy.

I need to stop worrying what other people think.
Then I’ll be happy.

I need to let myself cry.
Then I’ll be happy.

I need to tell my grandma that I love her.
Then I’ll be happy.

I need to love myself.
Then I’ll be happy.

I need to let more people in.
Then I’ll be happy.

—–

Lies. I don’t really know what I need to be happy. Since I left high school, my life has been stamped with a label of uncertainty. I thought I removed it, but I was just trying to mask it.

—–

So. I’ve decided I know why I prefer to blog or write down my feelings. It seems to me that as soon as I utter any of these things out loud, they become hollow. I don’t really mean them. I don’t really feel that bad.

I don’t like “talking.” I don’t like “sharing.” I never get it out just right. And I am of the opinion that no one will ever really understand. Experiences are so unique and varied, and each person’s personality puts a very individualized shine on every event.

What I choose to remember is going to be starkly different from what another person chooses. Even if we have shared memories, certain things about them jump out more for me than they do for you.

—–

Meh.

I don’t need a hug.

I don’t need a kiss.

I don’t need fucking words of encouragement or any goddamn signs of supposed understanding.

What I need is a good stiff drink, a couple of sleeping pills and mindless entertainment.

Hello, Hollywood.

(via snip-snap-beep.blogspot.com)