Unwell again. Ohfuck.

I swear I have a touch of the seer. I’m usually unphased by things because I know they’re going to happen way before the fact. It’s a talent, I guess, or a gift.

And honestly? This is what I see happening. I know I have this big plan about becoming an author or a Sumerologist and going to graduate school and whatnot, but in all likelihood, that’s not going to happen. I’m going to graduate college, maybe, or else drop out; either way, I’ll have come to the realization that I’m not nearly as smart as people like to think I am, and that I have neither the fortitude nor the talent to make it as an author, writer, scholar, artist, or anything else I aspire to. I’m sure I’ll have found some guy to attach myself to at that point—and going by my rather dismal track record (equal parts RS quality lesbians and totally incompatible guys; think ER [with whom my only regret is that he dumped me before I could dump him], SG, and this other kid from college who’s, okay, picture SG but kinda skinny, really preppy, and with an even more tenuous grip on heterosexuality. And he’s my sometimes-boss at work.), I’m sure I’ll be with some idiot I only barely like but want to be with because I’m desperate both to save from whatever his particular poison is and to find some excuse why I shouldn’t feel so damn lonely. I’m sure he’ll be abusive. I do enough idiotic crap when I’m depressed—I pick fights looking for people to hurt me, and if they won’t, I’ll just go out and batter myself on my own—that finding someone who’ll actually choke me out will pretty much be a logical conclusion. He’ll either be in college or not, I don’t know, and I’ll be living out of a van because I’m sure by that point I’ll have been broke for a fairly long time; my “family” will be more or less entirely out of the picture (five years; I give myself five years before I can tell everyone I’ve ever known to fuck off and leave me alone for the rest of my life; there are only five people at this point that I can imagine myself wanting to stick around with, and even then one person’s slowly slipping off that list…), so I’ll pretty much be all alone except for that guy. I’ll wind up moving in with him eventually, and the beatings will get worse, and either he’ll kill me (which I would really not like) or I’ll run out in desperation in the middle of the night and take the van up to some bridge and jump off and do the job myself (which I’d rather prefer, and see as the more probable scenario anyway). The only thing I’d really regret about all that would be that the people I’ll have “left behind” who would even notice when I’m gone would just use my story as bragging rights during their “my life sucks more than yours” pity parties, which would really annoy me and make me even more depressed, even though I’m dead.

I don’t know. I just really don’t care anymore. I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel someone’s arms on me or get used to someone next to me or start to be able to take the fact that someone loves me and wants to touch me for granted. I want to feel special for once. I hate when people say “I know how you feel”, or “yeah, I’ve been through that” when I finally decide to tell my stories. I don’t want to be the same as you then. I’m used to being a loner outcast awkward little fuck; I’ve come to accept that because there’s nothing I can do about it. But when I tell my stories, I just want to be able to highlight that, just for a second, as maybe being something that makes me worth loving and different from all you. I want to be special to at least one person. I don’t want to be anyone’s friend anymore. I want to be someone’s love.