Okay... so it's been, what... maybe about two weeks? Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less?
But whatever, I don't care.
I don't care that my writing is obviously so bad that nobody anywhere wants a scene.
Mm, s'kay.
I don't care, I'm done caring, I'm done trying to care when all it does is get thrown back in my face.
I'm tired of trying to look after people who refuse to look after themselves, of trying to stay cheerful to those who annoy me, I'm tired of being kind to those who piss me off.
I'm done. Finished.
Now, I'm going through changes.
I'm being suffocated by trying to help everyone, and you know why I'm doing that?
Do you know why I devote my time, money, and hospitality trying to help everyone whilst at the same time remain sane?
Oh, what the hell, let me tell you a story.
Not like anyone will like it, it's not like my writing's any good, but what the hell.
Have a story.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl who delighted in receiving attention. Easily made jealous, there were some who called her selfish, and she simply laughed this off. Always loyal to her friends, but often snapping at them when they irritated her, nobody really seemed to mind. One day, she discovered that actually, they minded a lot. Actually, they were attempting to get away from her, were attempting to distance themselves from her, in an attempt to save themselves, regardless of the consequences that this may have on her. As you may recall, this girl revelled in attention, and so when her friends were gone, with only the most loyal remaining, she vowed to spend all her time, effort, energy and money on making her friends happy, keeping them safe... trying to give them the life and happiness that they deserved, but that she never would.

Gradually, over time, people began to like her. Many still hated her - she had never been a particularly attractive girl, and though her boyfriend told her that he believed her to be the most beautiful girl on the planet, what her previous friends had told her had severely shaken her, and was unlikely to release it's painful grip any time soon. You see, the girl had never before been told that she was selfish, greedy, and malicious. She'd never been told that people would rather kill themselves than continue being twisted and broken by her. She'd never been told that she was vicious, and evil, and deserved nobody, not her boyfriend, not her friends, not anyone.

Until that one day.

It broke her, but she vowed not to speak of the internal agony to anyone. She began to keep her secrets to herself, and cut and harm herself in private, keeping the cuts and scars away from everyone. She wanted the pain to herself, wanted to keep it as a secret for only her to keep. She found the red streaks and smeared blood to be somewhat attractive, and liked the taste when she would run her finger along an open wound then lick it clean. She would usually go for months on end without doing anything, then would run a jagged piece against her leg or arm, without meaning to do anything... and as the blood appeared, it would send her into a frenzy that ended with her panting, her hands stained with her own blood and her limbs throbbing pleasantly as they oozed.

She began to listen when other people spoke of their home and family problems, their issues at work or school, allowing them to rant and rave to her, speaking only when she felt it necessary. All the while, she kept the pain at her father leaving to herself, cried herself to sleep at night when it felt like she was too alone to continue, kept her real emotions and feelings bottled tightly away from anyone and everyone else, terrified of letting anyone too close to her in case she was hurt like that again.

Terrified, even, of letting herself know herself, for fear of letting her emotions out, her feelings free, and losing her friends once more. Around about the time of her false exams, devised so as to get an idea as to how students may fare in the real thing, she began to go under a massive amount of stress. Reduced to tears by the smallest of things, she began to write, or rather, to type, pouring false emotions and feelings into words, still terrified of allowing herself to feel real emotions, real contentment at life, scared of having it all ripped away. Now, however, her words were beginning, slowly, to reflect more and more of how she really felt.

And still, nobody understood, nobody recognised the agony that she was going through, instead relating things to their own experiences. Oh, it'll get better soon, she was told. You don't know what it's like, it's just a phase for you, she was told. The main thing was, in various forms, 'You don't understand.' No, she found herself thinking, time and time again, it's you that doesn't understand. You may be going through more physically than me, your family may be more messed up than mine, but you don't fucking understand. There's no point trying to explain it to you if all you'll ever do is relate my experiences to yours... they're different, too different, you don't. Fucking. Understand.

Even while thinking this, however, she would remain silent, internally fuming and sobbing, and beginning to retreat back into her shell. She found songs that related to her, and threw all her efforts into trying to save one of her friends from what would certainly destroy her if the girl didn't do something to help. And she was, she was doing all she could to help, but was always having it thrown back in her face. It was at times like this that she felt her most real, when bitterness and anger would bubble to the surface in full force, and she would be scared by herself and retreat once more, and hide behind her mask, now so carefully, elaborately decorated and so beautifully deceptive that she herself was no longer sure what was her, and what was a facade.

'We love the real you,' she was told, time and time again. When that happened, she only really ever had one answer, one that she could never speak aloud.

You don't know the real me... and you wouldn't like it if you did.


Wasn't that a beautiful story, if you could be bothered to read that far? Hm? Oh well.
Wow, has anyone noticed how much the song Kryptonite, by Three Doors Down, relates to that story?
'I took a walk around the world to ease my troubled mind, I left my body lying somewhere in the sands of time...'

The girl was faking life. She wasn't her real self.

'I feel there's nothing I can do...'

It explains itself.

'If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman?'

If it got too difficult, and someone saw the real girl... would they still like her?

'You call me strong, you call me weak, but still your secrets I will keep, you took for granted all the times I never let you down...'

It explains itself. The girl was tired of feeling as though she was just someone to offload secrets, fears, thoughts and emotions to. She wanted to be treated as an equal... she wanted to be treated as though she was important. She wanted people to like her... but never let anyone down, despite being in pain. All others went before herself.

'You stumbled in, and bumped your head, if not for me then you'd be dead...'

The friend mentioned? The girl spent all her time, and all her effort, trying to look out for this friend. She did all she could to keep the friend afloat, to keep her sane, feeling taken for granted at the time... and never important enough to be considered better than the rest. Yes... even despite locking herself up tight, she still wanted to be the best, or at least the best friend of most... immature, childish perhaps, but she just wanted to feel wanted and loved, as a friend and a girlfriend, after her forceful rejection.

I don't know, I just think they seem somewhat similar. You probably have your own way of thinking of it. I just think that, perhaps... they seem to connect someone. The girl and the song. Maybe she thinks so, too...