hate is a strong word. but what if you feel a strong feeling?

what makes a relationship successful?

search me. I guess a good relationship with yourself, maybe?

I'm unhappy. I'M UNHAPPY. There, I said it.

I hate this. I hate everything. Everything is terrible and I'm at the heart of it. I hate myself. I hate myself and hate everyone who likes me because they're stupid.


I want to be unhappy. I get you're having a hard time. I'm here to support you. blah blah. but I'm not allowed to have a hard time because I'm not you?

I don't like you. I don't like you at all. You're not letting me be miserable so I'll be miserable all over you. I want sympathy. I want attention. Are we just in this for the sex?

I don't care who reads this. I don't care who I am. I don't care what I project. I want to drive to the beach but I'm afraid I'll try to kill myself on some stupid canyon road. It's too much of a temptation.

You don't know who I am because I don't know who I am.

I want to leave you because I want to be alone. I want to be by myself. Not because I hate you. Because I do. I hate everything about you right now and I don't care.

i feel like im not allowed to be unhappy.

the end

I want to die.

If I could just close my eyes and float away and never come back? That would be ideal. Just escape the 'mortal coil', and all that. Life is too confusing, with its tangled web of feelings and duties that stretch you thin like gum. 

I haven't felt this way in a long time and it happens when I begin to lose hope. When moving forward doesn't seem to be taking me anywhere pleasant. There's just so much work to be done, and still there's no guarantee, you have no idea where anywhere will lead. My feet feel stuck in the mud. 

I'm not in a good place and I'm tired of having to feel like I am. To continue a life scrabbling in the dirt is so tiring to me. I suppose I'm lazy. I'm not sure. I just don't know if what I'm doing is paying off at all. I want out. 

and I want out quickly, too. I don't look forward to pain or agony; just another light that blips out. 

Glitz

I wonder if this is all, if all that glamour is real. I want the pool parties and fancy cars and Cali sun and nightclubs and lookin good. Being a model, a famous actress, the pictures, the identification, the expensive sunglasses.

Is this all attainable? Do I want this? They never show the 55mins of hard work before the 5mins of fame. I just want to look good and for people to think I look good and not have to feel embarrassed or out of place.

Jogging

I'm not sure what I want to write about. I'm on my phone. And I hate typing on the screen. But not as much as I hate blowing out my elbows, typing sprawled out in front of the screen. I'm not much of a desk person, it seems. Or I just don't like my desk. Probably the latter.

I told my boss I'm looking to quit. I feel guilty for even wanting to quit but I can't stand much more of it. Part of me just hates it. Hate it. It's a strong word? Well IT'S A STRONG EMOTION.

Fuck, my elbows really hurt right now. Note to self: try to use desk?

Anyways it's time for a change. Shake it up. Pick up the pace.

cha-ching!

people never want things to be someone else's idea. Especially when it has to do with their own life choices. "People", as in, me. I'm stubborn. I'll get angry about nothing just to be angry. It's hard to lose.
What's worse than losing to someone else though, is losing to yourself. It won't happen. Never. Had a large-ish argument with Jon about culinary school. Oh, emotional Jade, just going to SIGN UP FOR CULINARY SCHOOL RIGHT NOW WHEN I GO HOME. I NEED TO TAKE ACTION. I NEED TO DO THINGS. I've been feeding my loneliness/restlessness with reckless card-swiping (or typing, since these are all online buys) at Payless, American Eagle, Nordstrom and Amazon, respectively. Payless, really? My empty heart must be itching for some lovin. Or at least some human contact. So yes, I attempted to sign away half of all my savings to register for a culinary school I have never seen, except online. I'm sure the place exists. It's legit. I think.

My dog always hides under the bed when I'm on the phone and am I a horrible, overly emotional, angry person? He's trying to escape all the bad vibes from under there. It's Pavlovian. I can't believe this is one of his habits. Even when I'm having a good phone call, he'll hide. I'm just passionate, okay?

posterity

so you're not a writer until you publish something, right?

and the only way you get published is if you write something worth reading, right?

That's a lot of pressure.

What is "something worth reading", anyways? I don't think I'm a terribly inconsistent blogger because I'm an inconsistent person, I think it's because there's so much fucking pressure for me to produce something that is  witty! and engaging!  and people just think it's soooooooo hilarious! and adorable!  Sex doesn't even sell anymore. (Because it's free. Unless you buy a subscription. Which is kind of like getting married.) People want clean and earthy and marketable and family friendly. Commercialized and packaged and wrapped up in bows and curls and balloons and --

I'm getting off topic here.

It's all excuses for why I'm not doing anything. Pressure. Ohhh, pressure this and stress that, and complain, complain. STOP. Get up off your ass, stop watching Food Network Star and cook something, for Chrissake. Go to culinary school. Move to London. (which I cannot do at the moment.)

Well here's the reality of the situation. Let's start with the basics.

I am female. I am 21. I am mildly attractive. I am Asian. I live at my parents house. I work at this ..err artist-based streetwear store. I still don't know how to but it cleanly, but basically, I ship packages for 6 hours, 4 days a week. Alone. In the backroom of a store-front. That sells graphic T-shirts and pillows and pins and shit to both men and women who like to advertise their love for the Simpsons, HipHop figures and weed jokes on their chests. I like to drink. Excessively. I like to smoke weed. Not as excessively (as I recently found out when I "quit" cold turkey). I use $15 an hour wage to pay off my car, my student loans and now, as I recently was reminded, need to pay off my now-in-collections college tuition debt from one year of college (which is about 16k, not including interest). Oh, this is fun. I do have a very loving and supporting boyfriend, who was the former best friend of my ex-boyfriend. And also both our roommates. (I know, I'm great.) My boyfriend works at a Fortune500 company as a Financial Analyst. (He hates the title: Accountant. He majored in Accounting. He's a CPA. Whatever, I indulge him.) He is quite the clown. Loves jokes. On me. Usually. He's 4 years older than me. I should have graduated college this year. Gotten that piece of official looking paper that tells you I can write and have read lots of books. (I was an English major.) My therapist says I'm very improved from a year ago. That's heartening, seeing as I've: moved out from living with my ex-boyfriend/fallen in love with his best friend/moved in with my family/quit drinking everyday/quit smoking everyday/quit taking way too many drugs on a regular basis/held 3 jobs last year/begun to watch entirely too much television/ decided to go to culinary school and still not registered.

So it's all good. I'm good. It's good. 

beginnings

A new start.

The impossible luxury of a completely new beginning. New name, new hair, new face/boobs/legs/nose. But new personality? I don't think so.

So many years trying to escape the truths. No, I was not possibly an alcoholic. No, I'm not living in my parents house. No, I did not make a series of bad decisions and lost many of my (and here I'll put acquaintances, because "friends" seems a bit much.) No, I do not curse like a sailor. No, I did not just binge-watch Bojack Horseman for the last couple hours.

No, no, no, no, NO.

But sometimes what's more damaging than the No's are sometimes the Yes's.



Yes, I love my job. Yes, it is very fulfilling. Yes, I love living with my family. Yes, I don't regret leaving college. Yes, I generally like my friends. Yes, I'm working on a soon-to-be, world-famous novel.
Yes, I believe in myself.

And then there's the Maybe's.

Maybe I can do this? Maybe I can be successful? Maybe I can move out? Maybe I can support myself? Maybe I can - Okay, I'm done with this now.

The point is, I don't really know who I am. Or maybe I do and I'm lying to myself. Okay, THE POINT IS. I've spent all this time being someone else, blogging like I'm an elegant writer, a sweet cooking mama, a super depressed emo corner child. So I'm just going to write. Write, and maybe I'll find myself at the end of it. Maybe I won't. I'm not really looking for anything, I guess.. like I'm walking for the hell of it, which no destination in mind.

So no, this is not a rainbow-filled "journey of self", complete with tunic wearing Shamans and Chong gazing out through his purple specs telling me "It's all good, man." I don't really know why I'm doing this. Does it matter?