Holy S**t, that's a lot of bitching.
What makes a parent unwilling to face the fact that when somebody has a change in sleep schedule, they cannot suddenly go back to what they used to have? And why does said parent get annoyed when the wee hours of the morning are now the evening for me? And that this is really the only time I have to write my thoughts out, and speak to my friends online? What, exactly, makes this fact elude her? And honestly, it's not like I'm listening to loud music, or moving around alot. I am just laying on my bed, typing away at my keyboard. The only sound you would hear is an occasional shift in position. Not loud, clomping steps. Not a television on. Nothing. Oh, sure, I have a light on, but only after she yelled at me for not having one on when at the computer. But SHE LIVES ON A SEPERATE FLOOR FROM ME! I am not prying her eyes open and shoving a flashlight in them! She just doesn't understand that If I turned my lights off and shut down my computer at 2200 like a good little boy, I'd just be laying in the dark until 0300, waiting to be tired enough to sleep, while story ideas, random thoughts, and a myriad of other things race through my wide-awake skull. *takes breath* And another thing. I cannot be online when Chuck is. He claims I take up tons of bandwidth. And, he completely ignores the fact that I am mostly visiting text-based websites, while his son, who is apparently JESUS CHRIST INCARNATE, plays MMORPGs, which are notoriously graphics-laden bandwidth hogs. But no, his son is perfect. It has to be my fault, because I am just a stepson. Which makes this time of night even more my only refuge for life on the 'net. Because I sure as hell cannot be online until around 2200. Unless, of course, I want to be yelled at about my usage of an incredibly small amount of bandwidth, which is MORE PRECIOUS THAN GOLD. And while we're on the subject of things that are precious, WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I REMEMBER TO TAKE MY MEDS DAILY??? I need the stuff, and just going two days without it makes me go into serious withdrawal. You'd think that I'd take the extra TWO FUCKING SECONDS it takes to swallow them dry, and go on with my day. But NO, I have to be a complete dumbass, and not take them. Because I know better than all of my therapists and family. Gawd, I can be such a dumbass. I just realised, this is exactly the time that I could be writing The Story of Ed, but I am too busy bitching about how horrible my life is, with all the plentiful food, steady work and fucking ROOF OVER MY HEAD! Gawd, I am such an emo bitch right now. I swore I'd never have a post like this, too. Looks like I'll have to break that promise, just like I've broken pretty much every single promise I have ever made to myself. At least I still haven't been forced to work fast food. That's a blessing. Christ. This is definitely stream of consciousness writing. I fucking hate when people don't understand why I do things the way I do. Oh, man, I'm not even gonna start on that topic. Or maybe I will. I don't know. No, it's getting slightly close to my bedtime, and I don't want to write what promises to be several pages of fun. I don't want to write about that, ever. Just too much of a topic that even I don't know about. Gawd, I fucking hae the fact that I cannot remember most of my life. All I really have are a bunch of stories I hear from family. It's almost like I'm a stranger, listening to the exploits of this strange, angry person. I guess that's why I like writing the Memoirs of Craig Retsnimde. It lets me decide how I want my life to have been, instead of hearing about a horrible monster who only finds joy in destruction. Every time I hear stories about myself, it usually highlights dumbassery, or it says that I am a violent psychopath who lives only to make other people miserable. I never hear about times where I make people smile, or do something nice. Nobody remembers those. But I suppose I should expect that, being a monster and all. Hell, I like the Story of Ed better than my life. The only thing I have going for me here is a girlfriend who loves me, and I am scared shitless that I will say or do, or not say, or not do something stupid, and fuck up all my chances with her. Christ, today we were talking about our future together, and I just could not believe anyone would ever choose to live with me. Aw, fuck. My nose is bleeding, now. Why the fuck does my nose bleed when I'm upset? It's fucking annoying, to think that the wetness on your legs is tears, but you look down to see, surprise! A pool of blood. I mean, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? My hands and face and legs and sheets are now covered in blood, but I can't get up and do anything about it, because that would bother the rest of my family, and I am too damned considerate to even think about MY needs. CHrist. What should I bitch about now? Oh, yes. College. After failing this last semester, I constantly get this statement from EVERY FUCKING TEACHER, AND EVEN THE GUIDANCE COUNSELORS: 'Maybe college isn't for you.' You know what? FUCK YOU! If I want to spend my hard-earned money doing something that takes up my time, and gives me a pleasant alternative to just sitting at home twiddling my thumbs, then you have absolutely NO BUSINESS trying to keep me from doing that. Fucking academic probation. Also, being a full-time student lets me be on my Dad's health insurance, which means I don't have to pay UNGODLY amounts of money to get the medicines I really need to function from day to day. You know, I take THREE TIMES the recommended dosage of Zoloft? And that shit is expensive. Oh, good. I'm not bleeding anymore. Good. Don't have to worry about dying from blood loss, then. Back to the school thing. Everybody here knows that one way a bright young person rebels against inadequate challenges in school is to just fail the easy classes? I did that with Computer Science. What the fuck kind of podunk city needs to teach their college students the basics of computers? 'Now, class, the little thing that you use to move the arrow on the screen? That is called a mouse. Now, say it with me: moooooooouse. Good Job!' Fucking hate shit like that. And I doubt the guy teaching it likes it any better, so I shouldn't get my panties in a bunch about it. Christ, this is a lot of writing. And I plan to write just a little bit more. But now, I want to bitch about myself. I am, quite definitely, a whiny, pretentious, self-serving, gorram sonuvabitch. And yet, I somehow have friends. Despite my greatest effoerts, people still like me. But then again, I could go back to bein' paranoid, and think that everybody's just pretending to put up with me. Well, except for Stacie. Nobody would hang around me and do the stuff we did without genuine attraction. But that brings me to another point: Why on Earth does she like me? I ask and I ask, but the only answer I get is that I'm adorable, or cute, or some other one-word, unexplaining answer. I want Quantity! Here's the sort of response I would expect, as to why I love Stacie: She is kind. She is compassionate. No matter how shitty her day has been, she will always loan me a shoulder to cry on, whilst asking nothing in return. She has plans. She has dreams. She is intelligent, but she still lets me teach her stuff. She puts up with my ADD, and laughs at my stupid jokes. She is pure as the driven snow, and naughtier than Santa could imagine. She is the Essence of life, all sweet and bubbly. She is, in a word, perfect. Oh, she has her moments of being emo, and she has a tendency to take on more than she can handle, but she pulls through, no matter what. But, most important of all, I love her because she loves me, even with all of the shitty things I have done.
Damn. That's a lot of bitchblogging. The time now is 0230, and I need to get ready for bed, ladies and gentlemen. Comments on why I am worthy of life will be very appreciated, as I am not really feeling that good about myself. In fact, I am feeling slightly numb. But I definitely feel like I worked something out of my system, and that is always good. Good night everybody, and be safe out there in internetland.