Disappear Orlean (orlean) wrote,
Disappear Orlean

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I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

It’s been an hour and the only thing I’ve managed to write is, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I’m depleted of any energy. Cans, plastic cups, plates, and crumpled notes are scattered across the room in an inadvertent strike against ensuing my aspirations. All I’ve managed to do lately is shove infinite amounts of food into my mouth. On the satirical sense of the situation, I could always join food-eating contests and win lots of cash, but since I’m not in a comedic mood at the moment, the only sense I feel is shame.

Thanksgiving beholds the usual inauspicious critiques, so for a good fourteen hours I‘m going to be reminded of how fat, unsuccessful, friendless, and license-free I am. While they say all of this I’m going to chuckle it off. I’m going to pretend the reality of the words doesn’t hurt while I gather the pieces of my severely shattered ego. This isn’t going to be the first time where I’ve dissuaded social events on the account of people’s insensitivity and self-assurance. It’s a no-win situation. If I end up not going, regret will plague my mind for the rest of my life for not being there for my grandmother’s last holidays. If I do go, well, lets just say I’ll come back feeling less human than I already do.
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