don’t fucking give me that bullshit. it’s not like you’re a fucking picture perfect person.
i’m allowed to have a little bit of privacy. you act like i never share a single thing with you ever. like the photos i show you, the stories i tell.. none of it counts because occasionally when you ask about something, i’m not particularly keen on talking about it. i’d understand your anger if i was actually as awful as you make me out to be, but you know what? i’m not. i’m not perfect, i’m not even good.. but i’m not as fucking awful as you tell me i am. not as awful as you treat me. not as awful as how you talk to me.
and you wonder why i don’t always talk to you.. because you fucking treat me like this! get angry in a matter of seconds as soon as i don’t know the answer to something or i’m unable to explain my feelings or actions.. did you ever stop to think that maybe expressing myself is actually really hard? that the fact i can even talk at all sometimes is something short of a miracle? no. you don’t. you don’t fucking think, you just fucking talk. and you talk shit.
you don’t know anything about me. even though you’re supposed to.
leave me alone.
i am the almost empty shampoo bottle in the shower of life
“you shouldn’t be depressed, people have it worse than you”
finally, after years of searching, the person with the worst life ever is found. formally, they are granted permission to be sad. but only them. only they have earned it. no sads for anyone else at all ever