This has been a shitty weekend. Well, not totally shitty, but shitty enough to overshadow the better parts. Or maybe I just feel that way because I always focus on the negative. Yeah, that's probably it.

The thing about me is that I say things that aren't entirely true because I feel they more appropraitely portray the person that I think that I am. An example: I often tell people that I don't have any friends because I think of myself as being totally antisocial, and blame myself for it. And the truth is that I'm a near-extreme introvert who much, MUCH prefers intimate, mellow social situations, but I can function in settings that don't meet those criteria. I would, in fact, say that I am well-liked, and I can easily get along with people that I don't know very well or that I even don't particularly care for. I am socially okay, but I won't let myself really believe it, and I'm always waiting around for someone to confirm my suspicions and that it why I say all of that shit that isn't true.

On a sidenote, this is really why Bridget meant so much to me-- because I cut the bullshit with her and was honest. (Granted, I won't credit myself with having been honest, but always tell myself that I withheld too much in order to try and please her.) So I continually put her on a pedastool because she was the one who always "got me," when in reality, it was me who was giving her the accurate account, so it's no wonder that she got it. Regardless . . .

I told one of these little unconscious lies this weekend. Whenever I was asked why I was working 8 1/2 hours instead of the standard 4 on Thanksgiving, I told everyone that it was because I couldn't stand my family. Because for some reason, I have this incredible, masochistic desire to make everyone around me think that I am the biggest, most bitter bitch to ever land in central Wisconsin. But I'm not. Seriously. The real reason that I asked for a full shift in the middle of the day was so that I wouldn't have to choose between spending Thanksgiving with my mom or my dad. Rather than having to weigh the situation I wanted to be in against the situation that I felt obligated to be in, I could simply lie and say, "The bastards are making me work all day." But I don't know why I even bothered because my fucking dad never even invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him, nor did he even bother to ask me what my plans were. I don't think he's called me in two months.

And the other thing about me is that I am passive-agressive. So I shrug my shoulders when I have been totally disregarded, ignored, tossed aside by my own father because who the hell needs him anyway? Not me. And it doesn't matter because he can't touch me. I am stronger than that. And then I radiate angst and find myself banging my fists on the dashboard and screaming at the car in front of me. And I tell myself that everyone will inevitably disappoint me, myself included so I am overcritical and I never allow anything or anyone to be 'good enough.' And love is not real and relationships always fail and this must be happy because anything else is just a Hollywood pipe dream. So fuck you all.

And while I'm preaching all of my cynical, cliched bitter-woman bullshit and begging for people to think that I am horrible, I never admit that no one else has ever made me feel so inconsequential and disposable in my entire life.

It shouldn't be fuck you. It should be fuck him.

Fuck him.

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