Tinsley is being horrible.
Today was a decent day.
But ever since she's been having that thing with Elliot she's been being a moody bitch to me.
We never talk anymore.
It's about him--it's never about me. What it ever about me before?
Most likely not.
I really am annoyed.

Mothers Day

A day of showing grats to the woman who went through hours of labor just to a birth the lovely, blood-and-guts-covered, shruken prune of a baby. What--only one day?
Now, I'm just being cynical.
Tinsley and I aren't doing so well.
Tinsley. My supposed best friend from childhood. Cliche, sounding isn't it? Well, that's my life. A stinking cliche. Bitter? Oh, yes.
Ever since her blossoming in the eighth grade, Tinsley has become the latest eye-catcher in town. She's always been a bit of a flirt but this year, the dial switched from 4 to 8.
Sometimes I can't stand her. All the boys she goes through. Wonderful connection, she leaves me for them...and then I ask, "What happened to So-and-So?" And she sighs. Says he's annoying, he doesn't understand her, whatever. It's always the same freaking thing.
I can't even talk to her for ten minutes without her texting her latest flirt-buddy. And to think, she's a Catholic. But hey---I guess those schoolgirl rumors come from somewhere.
Can't she understand that I really need someone?
I may be melodramatic but, honest to God, I feel like she's barely listening to me. And it's not just her. It's pretty much everyone. God, I sound like a fucking bitch.
And I get really pissed off when she takes my music. I am a hypocrite, I know. But when I take her music I make sure everyone knows I stole it from her and I'd never use a song she wanted. But no.
The bottom line is: I think I'm so ticked because I feel as though she doesn't give a flying hoot about me, my well-being, or our friendship. That's more untrue than true, but that's how I emotion.

Because my old blog is now deemed unusuable due to the fact that I don't like people reading my personal thoughts, I've created a new one. Not that anyone reads it anyway.
Voice: You should stop being so bitter.
I know.
I feel so cliched thinking this, but I seriously don't think anyone understands me. Just typing that makes me feel so utterly pathetic...but that's how I feel. Maybe I'm just pathetic. I should be realistic: how would anyone know who I am when I don't know who I am? What if they all have me figured out and it's me who's purposely changing myself just so I don't have to conform?
I hate conformists. And I am one.
Mother-dear, you really needs some meds. (You shouldn't be the one talking. You need meds) After math you picked me up and everything seemed fine. Then, a seemingly nonchalent phone call with my aunt later, you're spazzing. And crying. And driving like an antidepressants-jacked woman.
What's wrong?
I'm so stressful. I'm frustrated. I've worked myself to death. There's no point in life, living.
Question marks hung over the air. Quoi?
You're useless. You're no help. You don't even have the grades to make up for it.
Voice: Face it, you're a deadbeat. You are a bother. You have managed to fail living.
What didn't I fail? It's a rhetorical question.
I'm dropped off at the library, where both the librarian (who I had a former tiff with) and you are making it obvious they think I'm some kind of retard. Who knows, maybe I am.
I'll pick you up in an hour. Why? I want to be alone. I want to be away from the bastard that ruined my life.
What time will you come? 1:30, sharp, okay? I don't want you to kill yourself.
The disgust on your face is so obvious. Please, just reassure me. You leave.