Wallowing in self-pity is a bit like playing near a tar pit. First you stick your toe in and it feels nice and warm. And before you know it you're neck deep in shit and the more you struggle the deeper you sink.
I made it pretty clear from the beginning that this blog would be "an outlet for my emotions." Read: This blog is meant for me to whine and occasionally talk about cute boys and pretty clothes.
My new boat shoes.
Every once in a while, readers feel the need to tell me to stop being so "emo." That's just not possible. My life is too depressing and I never claimed to be a strong person. I had hoped that my personal doubts and inner struggles would be interesting and endearing and cute. I certainly don't want to drag all of you into the tar pit with me. In fact, I get a sense of fulfillment when my readers derive enjoyment out of my miserable existence. If that's not your thing and you want a light-hearted read, go follow some gay middle-schooler who only has to worry about passing trigonometry and figuring out how to masturbate. Or go here or here.
And as for the person who called me a fuckwit, I have to say thank you. Hearing the word fuckwit cheered me up because it sounded like a professor's name from Harry Potter. (This is one of those people who have to use British slang to sound intelligible.) And here is usually where I would say something mean about you. But since I don't actually care enough to read your blog or follow your incessant chattering on twitter, I don't know anything about you and wouldn't even know where to begin.
But you definitely took my mind off things.