Making this blog might be a bad idea and it might not... I'm not exactly sure about that yet. But who cares? I'm blogging and I don't really care about what the rest of you think.
BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW YOU! Booyeah.
*double-awkward-cough* Anyway.
(what follows is a long and boring thing that explains a lot of other long and boring things.)
This week has been shit-upon-shit for me, and the straw that broke the camel's back (yay for cliches) was the phone I've been waiting for for WEEKS came... and I apparently have to switch plans, pay like a million more dollars,and sell my soul to the devil (without even getting to fiddle against him) before I can even turn it on. And guess what?
I'M A SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL. I don't have the ability to switch plans, I don't have a million dollars, and I already sold my soul to the world of fiction writing. So you can suck it, friggin' Sprint people.
Asshats.
So as I sat in my room, pathetically bawling my eyes out because I've been having a crappy week (don't even tell me how pathetic I am, believe me, I know), and talking myself in and out of self-harming (I never did, eventually), I basically told myself a few things.
A. The guy I'm in love with is never going to like me back.
B. I'm a fat bitch.
C. And I'm never going to get my million-page, life's-work fiction story published, because, frankly, I suck.
And then I went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror, saw my eyes (ringed with mascara, with little black dribbles running down my cheeks), and I started laughing uncontrollably.
Me: (to the mirror) You damn raccoon!
And then I figured out that I'm gonna love myself, raccoon eyes and all. Little muffin-top and all. Stupid-guy-not-liking-me-back and all.
And thusly, as I scribbled on a piece of blank paper, love letters from a raccoon to herself was born. It's just me, giving myself a little bit of encouragement here and there. And hopefully, my encouragement to myself can encourage other people too, from pathetic teenagers like me, to older pathetic people too.
We're all raccoons sometimes, right? Ugly, fatass, damn raccoons. And we rock.
Love letter number one:
Wash that mascara off,
take an aspirin,
and play the fucking violin.
It might not seem like much, but hell yes it helped.
