Failure.

I’m a failure. No wonder nobody loves me. Why should they? I’m a failure.

I can’t keep a job. I can’t enjoy a job. I haven’t applied to school. I can’t decide what I want to do. I can’t save any money. I can’t keep a friend. I can’t lose weight. I can’t get an apartment. I can’t move myself to get an apartment of my own. I can’t be happy anywhere.

I’m too critical and possessive and I forget nothing.

I always have to make the first move or else I have no friends. Well, if people don’t want to make the move then I must not be worth it. I’m a failure. I’m a failure. I’m a failure. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed.

I can’t fall in love with anybody decent. Failure. Nobody I fall in love with loves me back. Failure. The one I love is nasty or uninterested in me. Failure. The one who loves me, I don’t love. Failure. Nothing ever works out. Nothing is right. I’m a failure.

So, great! I’m mature. I do mature things. I’m a mature failure. No one said failures had to be childish. Failure. Failure. I wrote Saturday at the top of the page as if I’m only a failure on Saturday. What a joke! I could handle being a failure for one day a week. But I’m a seven-days-a-week failure.

Okay, that’s not true. You’re being pretty self-indulgent and feeling pretty sorry for yourself. Luxury of the spoiled. Barbara and Peter are my friends. Joanna. Cindy. These people are my friends. Aren’t they? Yes. So I have some friends. Reuben. Okay. I have some friends. I have five friends. Lisa Ernst. Okay, six. Six friends. That’s a lot. Okay, I have friends. I’m not a failure at having friends. Okay.

But if I feel like a failure, then what good does logically proving that each thing I’ve failed at is not true? Or even that I haven’t failed at some of them? The feeling is failure. Failure. I’m a failure.

I haven’t applied to school. I don’t have an income. I don’t have an apartment of my own. I’m miserable. I’m a failure. Failure. Failed. Failed. Failed.

I’m a fat failure. Fat. Failure. Alliteration! Fat. Failure. Fucked up. Fucked fup. Alliteration. Failure playing at being a not-failure. Acting. But it’s not true. I’m a failure.

I find faults with everyone and everything. I can’t even let anyone else be successful. I hate everyone and everything. Failures do that. That’s part of my failing. That’s one of my faults. That’s one of the many many many many many things I’ve failed at. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail.

I’m scared to write down how I feel because I’m afraid someone will see it and be hurt by it. What a failure! I can’t even be miserable the right way. I’m still worried about how everyone else will feel. Hold everything in because you don’t want to upset anyone… If I upset everyone they’ll hate me. I’m more afraid of them hating me than anything. That will be one more thing I could be a failure at…

I’m scared and I’m lonely.

I don’t even know if I want to work at not being a failure. It’s too much work. I don’t even want to try. I really don’t. I want a fairy godmother to make it alright. If I don’t have it instantly, I’d rather be a failure. I must like being a failure. And see, liking being a failure is a failing! How could anyone like to be a failure? Have you met Juliet? What a kook! What a kooky failure!

This is a miserable stream of consciousness at one a.m. What do I do with these pages I’m writing? Who wants these? If my mother sees them, she’ll die. Emily? Emily would show them to Mom. Mom would show them to Dad. Dad. Dad. I love my Daddy. I wonder if he loves me?

If I keep these, I’ll read them and be miserable. If I throw them away, no one will ever know. I’ll never tell. Ever… I don’t want to be unhappy. But I don’t want to try at being happy or at least not unhappy. I don’t want to do it. I’m scared to do it. I’m afraid that I won’t have anything to complain about. I’m afraid that I’ll still be lonely and a failure… but happy.

This is so weird.