a Saturday, sometime in mid-1984

Failure.

Iím a failure. No wonder nobody loves me. Why should they? Iím a failure.

I canít keep a job. I canít enjoy a job. I havenít applied to school. I canít decide what I want to do. I canít save any money. I canít keep a friend. I canít lose weight. I canít get an apartment. I canít move myself to get an apartment of my own. I canít be happy anywhere.

Iím 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 donít want to make the move then I must not be worth it. Iím a failure. Iím a failure. Iím a failure. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed.

I canít 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 donít love. Failure. Nothing ever works out. Nothing is right. Iím a failure.

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

Okay, thatís not true. Youíre 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. Arenít they? Yes. So I have some friends. Reuben. Okay. I have some friends. I have five friends. Lisa Ernst. Okay, six. Six friends. Thatís a lot. Okay, I have friends. Iím not a failure at having friends. Okay.

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

I havenít applied to school. I donít have an income. I donít have an apartment of my own. Iím miserable. Iím a failure. Failure. Failed. Failed. Failed.

Iím a fat failure. Fat. Failure. Alliteration! Fat. Failure. Fucked up. Fucked fup. Alliteration. Failure playing at being a not-failure. Acting. But itís not true. Iím a failure.

I find faults with everyone and everything. I canít even let anyone else be successful. I hate everyone and everything. Failures do that. Thatís part of my failing. Thatís one of my faults. Thatís one of the many many many many many things Iíve failed at. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail.

Iím scared to write down how I feel because Iím afraid someone will see it and be hurt by it. What a failure! I canít even be miserable the right way. Iím still worried about how everyone else will feel. Hold everything in because you donít want to upset anyoneÖ If I upset everyone theyíll hate me. Iím more afraid of them hating me than anything. That will be one more thing I could be a failure atÖ

Iím scared and Iím lonely.

I donít even know if I want to work at not being a failure. Itís too much work. I donít even want to try. I really donít. I want a fairy godmother to make it alright. If I donít have it instantly, Iíd 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 Iím writing? Who wants these? If my mother sees them, sheíll 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, Iíll read them and be miserable. If I throw them away, no one will ever know. Iíll never tell. EverÖ I donít want to be unhappy. But I donít want to try at being happy or at least not unhappy. I donít want to do it. Iím scared to do it. Iím afraid that I wonít have anything to complain about. Iím afraid that Iíll still be lonely and a failureÖ but happy.

This is so weird.

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