dear myself,

i don’t know why i bother talking to you- you never listen, though if i’m being honest (and, ngl, i have no idea if i ever am), i’m never sure what i want, anyway, and even if i was (which i can’t actually even imagine that) i can’t imagine you have the power to help me get it, if indeed ‘it’ is anything worthwhile, since you’re as bewildered and lost as i am, or at least you seem that way, though what do i know; i’m the one who’s actually looking at you in search of clarity and/or purpose, like i could even trust you if you were offering anything, since the more certain you seemed to be the less i would ever actually trust you, though i will admit that this is true of anyone, not just you (though i suppose it would be particularly unsettling coming from you), which makes me really wonder what the purpose would be in my asking for any kind of guidance from anyone at all, because anyone who would have the (in my mind) arrogance to respond would be automatically disqualified, in my mind, from being taken serious, which, i guess, actually allows you something resembling authority, since you never even pretend to have anything to offer and it’s not clear that you’re even paying attention to my pleas for, whatever, and, if nothing else, i can’t pretend that i don’t find this respectable, because i’m an idiot, and it’s pretty clear, at this point, that i don’t have any real interest in answers or self-discovery or happiness- i just like to put on a show for myself, and you’ve never let me down in that respect.

at the same time, fuck you for not helping me out with this, because i know you know that i need it. asshole.