Cry, Cry, Baby.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't the way I was.

I wish I was the honors student, the one who had a passion for learning, athletics, volunteering, you name it. I wish I wasn't such a disappointment to everyone around me.

I wish I wasn't such a disappointment to myself.

That's what I sit and think about: The fact that I'm wasting my life. The fact that I'm nothing more than a waste of space. I think of what it would be like if I experienced an 'It's a Wonderful Life' scenario. Most times I don't believe it would be the way it is in the movie. That it would be a sickening prediction of mine come true: I'm not necessary.

I look at my mom, and the stress she's under constantly, how hard she works to please everyone but herself, and no one takes the time to notice. I realize she probably runs through the same scenario herself, and feels almost as hopeless as I do. It makes me sad.

Then there are the times I think:
"Is there even a point to this? I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything. I don't feel like I mean much. Am I supposed to be doing something? What's the point when I only have a few decades left anyway?"
Those are the times I feel the most hopeless.

It's just like a friend of mine said to me.
"Truth is, very few of us actually make a difference in the world. Most of us will never mean anything to more than a handful of friends and family."

I told that person I was determined to make a difference. That I would prove them wrong. But now, as I think about it...What's the point, really?
What's the point of life?
What's the point of even being here?
What's the point of living?

Emotions Suck.

I wrote this a while ago:
http://www.writesomething.net/you-know-whats-fuckedi-liked-you/1781241.html

I don't even remember writing it.
Emotions are funny that way, aren't they? I was so angry; so overcome with it that I wasn't even controlling my fingers on the keyboard. Not consciously, at least.

Sometimes, I wish I could control my emotions.
I hate that I blush when I'm embarrassed.
I hate that my palms sweat when I'm nervous.
I hate that I get butterflies in my stomach whenever I so much as think that a cute boy is looking at me.
And I hate my anger.

My anger is so unique. I don't throw things, I don't yell. I seethe. I write. I sit there silently, my head feeling like it's about to explode.
Sometimes I feel like that's more dangerous than yelling or throwing things.

Just because something is contained doesn't mean it will stay that way forever.