{11th may 2012}
dear jen,
not really sure if it's a good idea to write to you. it's not that bad, i guess? considering you'll never read these (thank god).
at any rate, the good part about writing to you is i can get all my shit out and there's no one to feel sorry for me or try and hug me or some shit or tell me that it'll get better. i don't have to nod and say yeah i hope so even though it's actually been a very long time since i've hoped for something as ridiculous as things getting better. i live in a perpetual state of un-better-ness, and have come to accept it with all its negative connotations, because i'd much rather be a realist than an optimist. sadly, it looks like i'm surrounded by optimists; a realist in a sea of optimists that, quite frankly, piss the fuck out of me. i fail to understand what seeing the good in things does for a person when there's barely any good to see in the first place. it's like deliberately blinding yourself.
anyway – my point. my point is that telling you about what's effectively my anti-optimism campaign and informing you as to how borderline pointless life is to realists and basically being as far from optimistic as humanly possible is actually a habit that a few, possibly a lot, of people are trying to break me out of.
therefore if, for instance, i made the incredibly misinformed and/or idiotic decision to read out this letter to someone of vague importance and/or relevance in my life (fun fact: the two can actually be mutually exclusive), that someone of vague importance would proceed to inform someone else of vague importance and that someone else would most likely be my therapist.
i feel like that was far more confusing than it could've been. never mind.
to be honest, i'm saving everyone a fuckload of trouble by writing these. i mean, imagine the stress people go through just thinking about me.
i guess i'm also a bit of a selfish prat, because it somehow feels pretty good, writing pages of shit even i don't actually understand and not having to do anything like pay you for listening to me (i mean, jesus christ, really? a job just listening to messed up people?) or watch you nod and write down long-winded medical terms that i couldn't even begin to decipher.
i'm seriously considering asking to fire the therapist and hiring a piece of paper in his place. both do fuck-all to make me feel less like i want to throw myself off the roof of my apartment block.
(which i do, for the record. i'm surprised i'm still here, to be honest.)
