mister cellophane shoulda been my name

Mood: Blank and bothered.
Listening To: Nothing, but I have "Mister Cellophane" from Chicago stuck in my head.
Reading: Alma 47.

Holy fat cow.

WHAT THE FRIGGIN CRAP.

Okay?

You know, I try and I try. I try to be there, I try to be open, I try to tell her the truth, I try to tell her what she wants to hear, I try to offer my opinion.

And what does she do?

Shoot me down.

I'm just a girl who I guess everybody thinks I'll always be there. Everyone thinks they can fall back on me when all their other friends give up on them. And yeah, I try to be. I want to be. That's what I'm here for, isn't it? To pick up the pieces? The pieces that won't be picked up by anyone else. The pieces that everyone else has given up on.

Yeah. That's what I'm good for.

But no. She won't tell me what's wrong. She gives me general, noncommital answers, and I feel offended. I thought that she was able to be completely open with me. I try to be with her. She's always telling me, "C'mon, this is Kenz you're talking to." And I'd open up. But she won't open up for me.

I want to give up on it all.

I see why people become hermits. I see why people just live alone.

Because it hurts to have friends. It hurts to have family. It hurts to love someone.

I hate it.

But I love it.

And I hurt.

<|3 = brittany