I like to think of myself as a polite person, but sometimes I forget
to say thank you.
I like to think that I’m considerate, but sometimes i only think of
I like to think that I pay attention to the world but sometimes I
can’t see past my own problems and give a shit.
I like to think that I’m smart, but I’m forgetful, and ditzy, and make
frighteningly stupid decisions.
I like to think that I’m funny but I never am when I need to be.
I like to think that I’m cute but I’m probably just irritating.
I like to think that I’m pretty, but sometimes I look at myself and
can only see flaws. Sometimes I hear compliments and all I can
remember are insults.
I like to think that I’m levelheaded, but sometimes I’m batshit
insane. Sometimes I go nuts with little provocation, and cry and
don’t even know why.
I like to think that I think about others, but then I write a blog
where every paragraph begins with I.
I like to think that I care about the people in my life, but sometimes
I resent them. For asking too much, or talking too much, or not saying
the right thing or feeling the right thing.
I like to think that I’m a good writer, but most of what I write is
trite and emo and only interesting to myself.
I like to think I’m over things, but then they keep me up at night.
I like to think I’m healthy but then I’m sick when I eat.
I like to think I’m a good person, but sometimes I don’t know. Maybe
I’m not. Maybe I really am evil the way my friends joke. Maybe I’m
really bad like some have said. Maybe I’m still the loser I was when I
was twelve. And maybe I don’t know how to finish.