Toxic Paste Levels

There are so many words at my disposal, yet I cannot think of any to fully desribe the way I feel. I'm mixed and jumbled; angry and confused.

But let me start with this disclaimer:

Anybody out there who is reading this journal and DOES NOT like what they read, has the freedom at their own fingertips granted through promises of this fantastic America, to X it out and not come back. If you don't like that I sometimes bitch and moan and come across as selfish or self-centered, then don't read it. I don't force you to come here, I don't force you to read and I don't force you to comment. This journal is mine, and in saying that, I can post here what I want without feeling guilty or ashamed or scared to click the "save" button.

And if you guys promise this, I can promise you that I will use discretion or anonymity when I feel I'm being too personal or that I may offend someone.

And as you all may have noticed, I'm moody. I get lonely from time to time, depressed and downright pissed, but at other times I can be completle content, sane and sentimental. We are all subject to feeling our own emotions, as well as posting them for all to see if that's what we so wish, and it's our perrogative to without feeling compelled to hold back.

Now back to regular scheduled programming.

I know I seemed a bit "off" in the previous entries (and trust me, it was hard to get funny in order to muster out a few man-bashing statements when you're questioning your entire existence, but I digress.) Truth to be told, I am a bit "off." Something is just not quite right. I am shaken, not stirred, at the possibility of frailties among the so-called strong fortresses that I have conned myself into thinking could catch me if I were to fall. The connection is lost and I am floating now, slow into the darkness of obscurity, alone. I am confident within my lonliness, now. This time I will be my saving grace, so to speak, I will be the one who digs me out. I'm the one that I want.

Judging by my out-of-charactered fallacious tendencies as of late, I need a good, what Dr. Phil would prescribe, self-reflection period in which I will sit in the corner sulking until I realize that Iwent about handling my anger in a temper-tantrumed, unnanounced rage. I am not completely denouncing my behavior, however, I do firmly believed by the power vested in me that every now and then, no matter how sane or insane, normal or abnormal you claim to be, every person could use a good full-on tantrum in which all your inner demons are thrust outside of your deep, hidden crevices and are allowed to surface and become somewhat of an actual feeling, instead of a subconscious malady that is supressed and locked into your personal dungeons. Let 'em out, baby. Pound your fists and scream and cry, if you need to, it's okay. Don't let such a beneficial emotional workout be only meritable for the "terrible two's." Show 'em that thirty-twos can be terrible too!

I am re-learning something I always knew to be true, (and good ol' Babs Streisand can second me on this one) that people need people. We are constantly swarmed into this new wave self-serving, pro-indiviualism way of life that we feel everything must be accomplished on our own to be worth mentioning. When did needing help become such a frowned upon notion? Why is it viewed as more propitious to have done something on your own rather than recieving help along the way? It's a pride issue. If you need help, you ain't got no pride. Not true. I've needed help on more than ten occasions in my life and I rarely hesitated to use it as a mere stepping stone to reach my goal. Or, in some of those cases, to reach a mental health level. It's true what they say, the first steps to fixing your problem is admitting you have one. Do you have a problem with that?

I momentarily pondered privatizing my journal, though when the idea of a private-online journal first came about it, it absolutely baffled me with it's contradiction (madness, I tell you.) I decided against it because I want people to find my journal and read it and because I don't want to be in the suburbia of AOL Journal Land. My journal is here for me as much as it is for anyone who wants to read it.

And with that, I leave you to go back to my wee chair in the corner, where I will continue to pout and act irrational until I there is no more paste left to eat.