I suppose I'm angry.
Lets say I could write you two novels to as of why. I wont, because I'm sure I'd start to bore you by then. Nonetheless, that's all you need to know, is that I'm angry. It's the fuel for me to write this, so in a screwed up way, anger is good. I could think of one hundred and one ways to distract myself, take my mind off of the anger, but I was never really good at taking my own advice.
My anger is my fault, because I'm not a people person. So one day I decided, 'hey maybe I should try to be.' So I did.
My, my. That was not very smart of me.
People tend to mistake me to be some juvenile. Unfortunately for me, when this happens I tend to break. I start to think of all the little things that I've been meaning to forget. It's like reliving my own personal hell over and over and over and over. Then everything stops, and I scoff at the thought of someone considering me to be juvenile-like. Yet, like I've learned I keep quiet, even with whispers and behind close doors. Some things should just not be re-told. But if I could I'd tell them all of those things that made me lose my mind, torture me, and how at the end I was still breathing. If I could I'd tell them how I survived the torture, even when I was so close to death. My unfortunate circumstances are what made me, and somehow I'm okay. I wonder what they would think, or if it would change a thing had I told them.
Probably not.
The worst thing is when they wont try to see behind the mask you have on. We all have our monsters. I guess it doesn't matter anyways, since no one would care to find out.
Today is a terrible day, and I'm okay with that.
