In the past, you children have had difficulty distinguishing between things I write about myself in the third person and things I write that are fiction, prose poetry, about random other people, etc.
To clarify: this one is about me.
...
You have your neat little life all packaged up: concern yourself with the things that affect you, never go out of your way to read over your friends' troubles unless you happen to be awake at odd hours with nothing to say to the two people on your buddy list who still spontaneously IM you, therefore the only two you ever speak to, again because you shouldn't go out of your way. After all, nobody else does. That's why you can only read over your friends' troubles, and only the ones on your list of journals, isn't it? They've stopped coming to you, or did you stop first, you can never remember but you feel righteously abandoned anyway. And never mind the contradiction, never mind the never minds, because they'll only unravel more things for you to chase after. Keep on writing your snatches of poetry on ATM receipts and losing them; you don't want to see that balance anyway, let alone follow up on a metaphor that won't capture what you mean without some doing. Extra work you know, too extroverted for you. Was it juggling you thought apt last time, or knitting? Do you remember whether you're balancing or weaving? You lean toward the latter, clearly, to indicate a sense of purpose and old-world wisdom in the same breath, but to imply planning and agency would leave one to wonder why you spent today staring at a pile of unfinished yarn work from under a pile of machine-made blankets and finding any excuse to stay there, warm, inert, invisible. You are too deliberate. You are hiding from the things you want to find you. You are wasting your time. You know what to do and how to do it. You are keeping yourself in this state. You have to stop waiting for good things to happen to you in spite of your efforts to prevent them. You are the reason you hate to be alive. Nobody is doing this to you. Get out of bed. Shower before 7pm even when you don't have to work. Call your friends and get them back. Make friends with your enemies. Meet new people. Remember new people's names and make them into friends too. Get a real job, get money, buy yourself some clothes, move out, lose 40 pounds and buy yourself all new clothes, go to grad school, get a better job, buy better clothes, get married, buy a house, buy a dog, raise a family, stay happy, stay thin, stay happy, send your children to college, stay happy, retire, die. Happy. Stop crying. Fucking stop crying. You can't stop crying even after you realized it was the crying that burst that hole in the deepest thing inside, you cried so hard you bled, you're still bleeding and you can't fucking stop crying. You are doing this to yourself. Wash your face. Put on some makeup and some nice clothes (well, do what you can). Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Nobody likes a sad girl. Why don't you even try to make a good impression? Stop clicking through those stupid sad songs, they're not going to help you. Words are not going to help you. You've had quite enough of those and look where you are, 7am and you haven't slept, just cried the night through wishing you were different. Wishes are not going to help you, even if you keep holding your breath every time. Stupid children's game. Grow up.