How Fucked Up Am I?

I started this one depressed day after my birthday and left it unfinished until tonight when for whatever reason I made a bizarre deal with myself saying that if I posted this I would allow myself to sleep. Best enjoyed with apple and cheese. No one gets that but me. She’s not reading this.


As I begin this I’m depressed. By the time I finish it I won’t be as depressed. Either I’ll start writing, and get in my writing mood and start making lame jokes and that will brighten my spirit, or I’ll stop writing before I get too far into this and just lie in bed listening to sad music until I fall asleep. The latter is usually what happens, but tonight I’ve got high hopes. Relatively speaking.

My birthday ended 51 minutes ago. It was a pleasant birthday. I usually hate my birthday, but for this birthday I told myself to just be. I don’t even know what that means, but I guess I did it. I woke up, listened to some podcasts, read a little, napped, went out to eat with my family, wrote, smiled at all the nice comments I got on facebook, especially one which I wasn’t even sure I’d receive. There were quite a few I didn’t think I’d get, but this particular one I really wanted, and ended up getting. It was from her of course. She brightens me up and tears me down to the likes which no one can match. That may be odd, but it makes perfect sense to me. Think about it, you only get disappointed for things that you get your hopes up for. It’s not that she does bad things that make me sad. It’s the lack of such great happiness I know I could be having with her that makes me sad.

This is how I know I love her above all others. I tell others I want them to be happy. I’ve had girls tell me I’m great but they’ve met someone else. And I care about these girls and I tell them its fine and I just want them to be happy. And I wish them much happiness in their relationships, and you know what’s shocking, I mean it. Sometimes it’s relieving. And I’ve told her that before too. I’ve told her I just want her to be happy, even if it’s not with me. And guess what, it’s total bullshit. That’s how I know I love her. I want her to be miserable with every guy she ever hooks up with because they can’t compare to me. How fucked up is that? But it’s not like I want them to hit her and talk down to her and have the sex to be bad. I want them to treat her like a princess, and buy her everything she wants, and have intellectual conversations that make Nietzsche and Socrates look like Ralph Wiggum, and I want the sex to be magical, out of this world great, which God damn orgasms that Jenna Jameson couldn’t even pretend to have, and I want her to have all that and more, but still when she’s lying in bed at night she’s sad because it’s not me, and she’s not as happy as she’d be with me, and she knows it.

How fucked up am I?

The sad part, well at least to me, is that I continually doubt myself. She’s in college. She’s going to meet guys smarter than me, guys hotter than me, guys who will make a lot more money than me, guys with bigger dicks than me, guys who can quote more movies than me, guys who remember to put the toilet seat down, guys who don’t almost cry twice a week, guys who don’t wake up and masturbate because they have nothing to do, guys who don’t almost slip and break their neck in the shower because they get too into singing one of their favorite songs from high school, guys who don’t start writing something about a girl they love but never finished and then come back to it two months later because it keeps nagging at them, guys who don’t pretend they’re in love with other chicks because they so desperately want to get over their first love, guys who don’t use commas just because they think run on sentences make more sense sometimes, guys who don’t listen to a song over and over again because it reminds them of her, guys who aren’t scared of failing, guys who don’t write whole paragraphs about how much better so many guys are then them, guys who don’t care about being perfect, guys who don’t care about being perfect for her, guys who aren’t me. Guy who despite knowing how great she is, despite being so much better than me in so many God damn ways, won’t be able to make he smile the way I can.

Doesn’t she know she’d be happiest with me? No. I never proved it. And now I’m afraid I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to.


About Danniel
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One Response to How Fucked Up Am I?

  1. I like that you write without filters, that goes for both your cynical and sensitive sides.

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