Or at least, the most of you. You know, that 98% of people or don't give a damn for others? The ones who think being an ass can get you everywhere in life? Yeah, you. Those inconsiderate ass holes that don't think of anybody but themselves and their other ass hole friends. You are the ones that can go to hell.

So how about the other 2%, like me, and the most of my friends? The ones who were taught manners, are polite to others, and who enjoy having a nice read every once in a while. Those that you can have an intelligent conversation with, not just a talking about who's who or what's what. They are the ones that can stay.

I know that most of you don't hear me very often; I don't update regularly, in fact, I hardly update at all, and I don't make journals often either. But if you are going to hear me, hear me now.
I hate people.
Every time I try and make a connection with someone, what do they do? They cut it, like thread with scissors. Each and every time I give somebody my trust, they tear it away. I know I have a great life; food, shelter, warmth, clothes, whatever, so if that's what you were about to say, you might as well shove off.
If I'm nice, I'm not "cool". Being polite gets me no where, whether it be at school or at home, but if you're an ass, you get your own ass kicked. So what then? Who am I supposed to be? I could be a jerk like everybody else, or I could be me.
Either way I'm hated. I just kinda want to give up on everybody, like I did before. Grab a book or two, three, as many as I can carry, and read in solitude. I'll pass the time by reading, writing, or playing music, as I did before. If I did it then, I can do it now.

Still, still, don't get me wrong. I'm plenty grateful of what I have. Meals every day, a decent education, freedom (yes freedom, we still have it, so shut up and be happy that we do), a warm bed. I just wish I had a family to come home to as well.
What do I get instead? An alcoholic mother, and brat sister, and a O.D.D., angry as hell brother. Every day I come home, glad to have had a decent day at school, and glad to be able to come home to a safe place. As soon as I open the door, though, fighting fills my ears. Whether it is my mother and brother, mother and sister, sister and brother, or father and mother (although my father is usually deployed, and is currently). Although I can't always hear it, I can feel the tension in the air. I might not come from a country with war and fighting and what not at every corner, but that's what it feels like sometimes.
My mother treats my brother and me like shit while my sister is pampered. Pampered and treated like an angel, although she really is a spoiled brat. There are too many examples to list, but trust me when I say it: I'm not angel, but neither is my sister. She tells my mother she is a bad parent, she whines and cries whenever she doesn't get what she wants. We don't have the money to be spoiled, but hell, that doesn't stop my mother from spending our extra dough on making her happy. Only her, only her. I don't get good grades because I want to. I don't learn all the things I can because I want to. I don't do most of the things I do for myself. I do them so she'll be proud of me.
My sister, like I said, is a brat, given in the above paragraph. She doesn't think of others, only of herself.
My brother, my brother. Sadly, we're the closest out of all the family. And oh, I've longed to be closer, but that just isn't possible. Can greed and being conceited by inherited? Because that's sure what it seems like. If he's wrong, he lies to make himself believe that he's right. There's more to him, but that I just can't bring myself to say. For this, I apologize.
And, of course, I love my father. But he's never here to be loved.

I'm not saying I'm an angel; in fact, I'm probably the farthest from an angel there is to be possible. I find the worst in people, although I try not to, and I begin to hate my friends. And, of course, I hate hating my friends. I tend to be torn in half; part of me wants to snap at my friends and tell them how stupid they're being, yet the other half tells me to be grateful that I have them. Which, yes, I am. I am very glad that I met all of my friends, because if I hadn't, I probably wouldn't be here today.
So, I tend to grow weary of my friends. Repetitive actions make my frustrated. My trust isn't something easy to gain, and when you lose it, it takes even longer to regain. There are really too many things to list. What is it, that makes me like this? A mental disorder? Depression? Some kind of crazy, made up physiological disorder?
And right now, this complaining right here, is making me hate myself. So often I tell people not to complain, so I apologize once again. I know you don't want to hear any of this. Complaining like this makes me feel like one of those cutting-for-stupid-reasons emo guys and chicks, who really have no excuse. Which is exactly why all I do is complain. I don't cut myself, never will. It doesn't help, and it's a bad habit to make. You only think it helps, but really, all you're doing is making it worse.
But that's not the point of this.

There are plenty of people outside of my family who, although I want to, I won't give the names.
I just thought they were different. I guess I'm not so good at choosing my friends anymore.
All that I go through (which isn't much, really, I guess I'm just a wimp), I have to listen to my friends' stories. I have to keep a smile on my face. If I don't, they worry. And I can't make them worry.
If I worry, they worry. If I'm upset, they're upset. Which I what good friends do, so I really do love them all. But it'd be nice to just let go once and a while.
The problem is, is that everybody who said that I can come out to them, I misjudge. And they, like the others, are asses.
You all probably won't see this, but you know who you are.




Oh well. I guess I'll do what I used to do. Shell up, get a book or two, or as many as I can hold, and just read in solitude. I'll play music to pass the time and my drawings can be all the company I'll need.
The bright side? I can practice all the instruments I've been meaning to master. The bright side? I'll just get better and better at drawing. The bright side? I'll have time to write.
The other side?
I'm me. And knowing me, or so I hope I know myself (this is questionable), I won't be able to do it.
Because I'm not able to do a thing.