Am I still suppose to be excited, happy? Or should I be excited with a hint of sad? But, I'm not either. There's this tight feeling in my throat and stomach and I feel like I need to take my anger out on someone. Someone other than my friend who went to Missouri who I texted, "there, now you can be happy. (Insert name of other friend) cant go and im thinking of just not having a party!" I didn't mean to snap at her and she didn't even do something to deserve it, but I just needed someone to yell at. No one, not even me, gets it. I need to feel special on my birthday which, sure, isn't tomorrow, but it was close enough. And my friend, the one not in Missouri or at camp, acted like something was wrong, so, being the caring friend I am, I asked what was wrong. "Something I don't wanna talk about." You know what? Fine. I'm dropping it then. If you aren't gonna tell me after very plainly saying something is wrong, then I'm not going to care.
I should go to bed. I should be happy that we're going at all. I should be a lot of things, but I'm just upset, one of the things it seems I shouldn't be. And now I'm telling one of my old friends just how crappy it all seems. I shouldn't because she actually seems a little happy about it, but I can't help it. I'm being self-centered right now. Yes, I'll admit it. I'm being self-centered! Sure, not for the first time, but I'm also being a drama queen so just leave me alone. Give me a melatonin pill or two or three and just let me sleep the whole effing week and when I wake, don't remind me of my birthday. Let me pretend that whatever I dreamed that effing week was the real deal. Let me fall into a zombie mode where food and life in general are forgotten. Let me forget. Haha, yeah, like anyone would let me do that. They would give me some bull, like, "These challenges will make you stronger" or "SUCK IT UP, CHUBBY!" The second one would be my dad. He wants to know why I'm losing weight and wants to know if I'll stop. Eff. You. Sure, you're my dad and yes, sometimes I love you, but I'm telling myself that you're the reason, that I'm sick of you calling me fat. No, I'm not stopping. I don't wanna be that fat chick that everyone makes fun of because not only is she fat, but she's an effing freshman.
How am I suppose to do this?
In 24 hours, I can wish myself happy 14 birthday, but it won't mean a thing. Age is just another number. What does it matter that, woopie fricken doo, I'm another year older? Sounds like I'm, like, 40 and want everyone to just quit realizing that I'm yet another year older, closer to being old. I feel old, like I've been here thousands of years, and just wanna leave, but I can't because I've always felt that suicide was showing that you were, in fact, too weak to go on. Whatever, I'm getting off. Gonna find something to do.
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