Wonderfully Creative

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I joke about bad luck, but often, I consider that I am the bad person. What goes around comes around, and what I say and do returns back to me. I have never been sickly sweet, but I used to be more accommodating. The meaner I get, even if marginally, the easier my life becomes.

I asked why life doesn’t change when I do. Maybe I don’t change meaningfully.

At some point in high school, I decided to be more honest. I decided I wouldn’t lie about myself for other people’s comfort. The truth will set us free. Pleasantries disappoint, and no stance is worse than the wrong stance. My mom tells me to lower down, and I tell her everyone deserves consequences. The cowardly lion and the brave.

Sometimes when I’m talking, as I’m talking,, I think, “How would I like if someone spoke about me the like this?” I try to reason, “There’s no avoiding it.” People like who they like. Attraction charts the course. Fate falls as it should. If it’s meant to be, it will be.

Obviously, fate isn’t entirely out of your hands. You choose how to be, at least how to behave, and measure reactions. I don’t hold my cards close, and I know it comes back to haunt me. I feel the paranoia. I chase intimacy by spreading thinly.

Yesterday, I threw a birthday dinner. “Turning A24.” Today, I am sick; waiting for test results.

The hostess at the restaurant did not like us, and did not like me. I think they did not appreciate the theme. I asked everyone to commit, and so I committed. What is there to life if not fun? They can be righteous, but I reject judgment of harmless fun.

At dinner, as always, I was loud and I gossiped. I HEART GOSSIP. I could see one of my friends die inside. We do not worship all the same principles. My friends sang to me (and I felt loved), but I don’t know if everyone liked each other. My mom chose other words but said I told you so.

Sometimes I say something and feel the fingers pointing back at me. I feel a siren going off in the listener’s head. Hypocrite! Hypocrite! Hypocrite!

Just know, whatever you think of me, I already believe of myself. A few summers ago, I couldn’t stop repeating, “My wants are eating me alive.” Although conceived under a separate trial of circumstances, the statement is likely true. My wants eat me alive. My impulses cannibalize my wants.

Sometimes I am the bad person. It feels like I’m sick just to prove it.