There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room. It’s like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the opposite direction — every second the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it’s really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and excitement at about a million miles an hour.
Being a third wheel sucks if you’re single.
I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
I’m a 20-something and life is all about me!
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them
My parents look at me with pity because I cannot get my shit together after graduating college.
I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
I live at home and the only thing waiting for me is season two of Pretty Little Liars.
Yes, I was infatuated with you; I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. But I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, and my dreams, and you weren’t having any of those.
Sorry I have an obsessive personality and glorified you but when you made a move I ran away!
Life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of ‘parties’ with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter — they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship — but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.
I think I’m really amazing inside my head but when I actually speak I want to smack myself in the face.
After being conditioned as a child to the lovely never-never land of magic, of fairy queens and virginal maidens, of little princes and their rose bushes… of the magic wand, and the faultless illustrations…all this I knew, and felt, and believed.
Don’t let your kids watch Disney movies.
I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world. How much of my solicitude for other human beings is real and honest, how much is a feigned lacquer painted on by society, I do not know. I am afraid to face myself.
Just because I have small boobs and can’t get a job, I still love myself! IDGIF about anyone else!
I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll’s body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.
If I’m having an anxiety attack, stay away from me.
What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
I hope I die before I turn 30.
I am afraid of getting older… I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day — spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free…. I want, I want to think, to be omniscient….
I’m never going to get married or have children because I’m an only child and I’m really bad at sacrificing myself.
I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
I don’t love anyone as much as I love myself!