I’m messy. I’m lazy. I’m unmotivated. Sometimes, I have trouble just getting up in the mornings.
I’m painfully shy; in fact, I’m a misanthrope. I hate people. And the worst thing is, I actually feel hurt when they hate me back.
I’m shallow and a complete looks snob. I would never get between the sheets with an ugly bloke…and yet I expect the Brad Pitts of the world to throw this ugly dog a boner.
I’m self-conscious and a nail-biter. My hands and voice tremble when I’m nervous. People think I’m cold or stupid or just plain crazy. All of those things are probably true, but mostly, I’m just scared of them.
When I’m pissed off, I have the kind of vocabulary that would make Gordon Ramsey and the writers of Underbelly blush. There is no middle ground with me—when I’m not numbed by apathy, I either build all the way up to heaven or destroy all the way down to hell. Usually the latter. I look (and feel) completely insane when the rage takes over, and have been known to hurl objects, furniture and small children. Alternatively? I just repress it all and let the anger build up until I end up cutting myself.
I’m an egotistical bitch. I exaggerate my abilities, my intellect, my achievements. I’m the Ernest Hemingway of bullshit, and frequently buy my own manure (sadly, I even thought that was a good metaphor.)
I’m depressed CONSTANTLY. I have no energy for anything more strenuous than lifting the remote, or the Playstation joystick, or possibly the phone to dial in for a pizza (I’m a lousy cook) or some gay phone sex hotline (because all the phone sex hotlines available cater only to straight MEN, and I can’t segregate myself from everything male and sexual for too long in case the old axe wound heals over, but it gets a bit difficult to fantasize about straight sex when you’ve got Papa Bear on the other line telling you he wants to use your arse as a pussy-proxy).
I’m also ugly. I know I’ve said that already, but it bears repeating because today one of my Year Nine boys spied my skinnier, perkier, blonder colleague giving her class a lecture in the room next door, and complained, ‘Aw, no fair! How come we don’t get the HOT teacher!?’ Compared to some of my colleagues, I’m a feral bush pig. My acceptance of this fact doesn’t make it hurt any less.
There are many many many more things I could list, but I’m too tired and you’re too coupled and happy. So I’ll leave you to the loving arms of your sex poodle and retire to my cold solitary single bed alone, and fiddle myself into a (hopefully) dreamless sleep.
Buon a notte,
Me.
