Not That Anyone Will Read This

I can't write happy stuff, the words that edge along the lines of 'over the moon, cloud nine, rainbows, et cetera. Not that rainbows are relevant in any way but I guess I might as well mention it since those words seem to all be associated with the sky. The point is, I am unable. I lack the talent, or perhaps the capacity itself. Incapable. To write happy. And it's not because I'm emo 24hours a day or that I never feel happy.

Okay, let me rephrase that: I can't, am unable, lack the talent and am incapable to write happy without sounding like a complete idiot. I write happy drafts and I let the backspace button eat the words up like some Pacman game so no one realises how stupid I sound when I'm happy. And that pretty much makes me the single most selfish blogger. One who doesn't share joy, happiness, the perks. One who forces readers to watch in agony as she (me) goes through the sticks and stones, all things bad.

That's the first part. But it sums up what I'm trying to say. That contrary to popular belief, I am not the selfless listener who lends an ear to everyone who needs me. Not the perfect friend who gives good advice. Not the one holding up everyone's problems, their burdens. Not, the person the world thinks I am.


More like the friend who takes. The girl who sucks the life out of you and throws your empty husk away like trash. End of story. I keep taking, but giving back? Don't count on it.

And soon, people will find out. That trivial detail will spread like wildfire. Because bad things always do. People will find out. Then, they'll leave.