Two years ago, on the night of my sixteenth birthday, I decided to be an angsty teenager. Furious, I took to my laptop and typed away at how UNFAIR it was that my sisters wouldn’t pass me the remote oN mY OwN fUcKen BiRthDaY!!1
The next day, I decided to create a place where I could share with the world these angsty thoughts, and even more of them. Thus was born the sad excuse of a blog you are currently reading.
Fast forward two years later, and… Here I am, writing an “anniversary” post, not on my birthday, not even on my blog’s birthday, but a day or two later. And this, ladies and gentleman, accurately portrays my wonderful personality traits: arrogant, lazy (okay now I’m quoting Snape), pretentious, always trying to fix what I could easily not have broken, and overall useless.
Does it matter that every time I think about this blog, I get a pang in my heart and an overwhelming feeling to come back and start taking care of it again, if I don’t put these feelings to action? No, it’s just one of my many pathetic attempts to console myself about being a failure at the most basic things. Isn’t it even more pathetic that I am sharing these thoughts with you? It’s like I’m almost pointing a gun to your heads, and whispering: “if you don’t post a nice comment about how I’m none of those things with at least three good adjectives, I will personally haunt your dreams as a guilt tripping ghost until you do. Bitch.”
No, I don’t want nice comments, or birthday comments, and I don’t know why the fuck I’m under the illusion that anyone is even gonna read this because I haven’t interacted with anyone in ages. Since I left the Blogger’s House Cup to rot in the dust, to be exact. I couldn’t even finish what I started.
I just don’t see what the hell I’m doing right now. Why am I dragging myself at 4 A.M. while listening to Ultraviolence? Am I trying to convince myself that I’m a tortured soul? Please. My life is the equivalent of cotton candy. I don’t know why I chose this atrocious metaphore. But I mean it’s a fucking piece of cake, and anyone else would’ve done much more of it. Is this trying to help me find myself or something? I don’t think it’s working. Daniel if you’re reading this like please find a better way to spend your time dude what the fuck.
Did I tell you guys? I earned a full scholarship to one of the best colleges in the country, to study English literature. How the fuck am I going to maintain my scholarship if it took me months to fucking write about it? I thought once I was done with studying the awful things of life a.k.a maths and science, I’d have time and energy to do what I want to do, to read, to write. But all I’m doing is literally NOTHING. As a punishment, I signed myself up for a Calculus III class in my first college semester as a free elective. Or was it me going to psychopathic lenghts to give myself something to complain about? Like that hasn’t happened before. Jesus Christ it’s almost funny. Don’t even feel bad for cackling internally, because I’m doing it too.
Guys, my best friend is doing Computer Engineering, but he has written a whole fucking story on Wattpad. It’s bad but like still. THAT’s how far behind I am.
It’s also funny how I started this post thinking I would cheesily talk about how I missed writing here, how I’m finally an adult now, going off to college to explore life with a smile on my lips and a passion in my heart, but BULL FUCKING SHIT. I’m less of an adult now than I were when I started this blog. And you know what? I’m gonna hatefuck it. I’m gonna keep writing awful posts like this until all of you start hating me and I stop feeling unworthy of my 500 followers.
Good night my dearests! Lol