You know your life sucks when not even your friends believe or listen to what you have to say. When you tell them a secret about your messed-up existence and the first sound out of their mouth is a laugh, followed closely by an only slightly more serious "You're joking, right?" as you stare them down for their initial reaction. And then comes the ever-popular "I'm sorry," as if they can apologize for life hating you so absolutely… Oh, and then there are those people who try to tell you the moral of your own life's story––something YOU did wrong that made you deserve the crap you got. News for you, the moral is: Life SUCKS.
Have you ever said something you shouldn't have? And I don't mean something nasty and snide––just foolish. Probably you have. Well, every time you do, there's ALWAYS some stupid, ignorant bitch there who only catches those very words and then proceeds to misinterpret them. Shortly after, she takes those words and tries her hardest to shove them back up your ass by telling everyone what you said. Happen to you? Well, it's even worse when you spread your arms out as you say it, taunting everyone around you, like I did once upon a time. 'Cause then it's a hundred times worse.
But neither of those compares to the groups––the LEGIONS––of people who will call you self-serving or self-centered, or even selfish, when you explain to them that you derive NO pleasure from the mundane world, and would much rather be either dead, or better yet, deceased. Me? I don't do that. When someone tells me they want to die, I do everything in my power to comfort them, and then when they decide they want to go, I'm still there to help. But, oh, how many times people have called me a liar, or have run though hallways screaming that I'm an "emo" or that I'm suicidal, or insulting every aspect of my being. And what for? Because they still think I'm a liar, or because they want attention. Hell, maybe even to make sure the way they view the world remains entirely pristine.
After that, I think you're ready for a little secret about me: I wear all black on most days. Why? No, it's not because I'm a "goth" or an "emo"–-neither of which should you call someone, by the way. No, it's not because I'm mourning––actually, the color white is typically used for said purpose. And NO, it's NOT because I want attention––that's the biggest one. I wear black because I want people to know the truth. I don't like manipulative lies or people who cover themselves with facades. And I wear black because I have a deep psychological problem whereby I actually believe that I might be doing someone a favor by saying, quite bluntly, "there's more to life than you think, you stupid fuck" to all those who still live on the lighter side.
And the reason why I wrote this piece of crap little blurb about how much life sucks? Because I can't think but to imagine cutting myself, slashing my wrists open with the razor that sits next to me, or performing various gruesome suicides, the most messy of which involves a shotgun, antihistamine tablets, sleeping pills, rope, a balcony, and razors, even though I still have 7 hours of homework to do tonight and it's 11:07 PM.
