Dear Self,

Dear self,

You're kind of a disappointment. Your current theme is "Pissing in the Wind" by badly drawn boy - so I guess at least that's okay...you've still got decent music tastes, I guess. You're taking entirely too long at everything you're doing, and the quality if only sub-par. You're not going to get much higher a grade on this paper about Islam than a B, and you're just going to have to settle for it.

For the last time, your parents don't want to help you buy a damn car. You've asked your mom, she kind of denied you, then later you talked to dad about it, he got angry and yelled, and then again when you brought it up to mom today, she actually seemed like she was considering it, seeing as how you're almost 21, you have actual need of a car, and you'll be moving to Utah soon...but that was just a farse. She doesn't really want you to have a car. Your sister IS selling her car in a while, but you'll never be able to afford it...hell, you have $400 some-odd dollars in your student loan fund, but you think you're going to use that towards something constructive? Don't make me laugh. You'll be a monitor for your computer that you need, because your current monitor hurts your eyes, and doesn't even belong to you.

You might think you will have enough money in student loans next semester, but that's a fallacy as well. You might not even think you'll need to ask your parents for rent, giving you some false sense of security, but that's bunk as well. You're reliant on them, and you'll never be out from under their need until you become a male prostitute, or a chip'n dale dancer (which you'll never have the body for).

You try to dazzle people with witty banter, but you neglect to tell them that you only scored a 22 on the ACT. You suck, you see. There's not gentler way to put it. You even suck at the things you do recreationally. Guitar? Don't make me laugh...no psaltry tunes for you. (insert school-related activity here)? Nobody in it likes you, seriously. You, once again, try to be comedic, but under your insecurities, your need for approval, and your neurosis, you're nothing but a distraction from the peopel who really know what they're doing up there. You've been contemplating not doing it next semester, and that's probably one of the most rational decisions you could make.

You're also a let-down. Due to your other 'plans,' no matter how 'important' they might be, you're letting people down. Always. Your parents are disappointed because you don't go to church every Sunday (and make a point of guilt-tripping you whenever they DO talk to you, or just yelling, outright), and dangle that over your head, your little brother doesn't have a proper role-model to look up to, due to all your dysforia, and you've let your friendships slip between your fingers. You've promised grandeur for some, coninued communication with others, and have disappointed all. Congratulations. You can't even manage to talk to the love of your life for more than 10 minutes without begging for them to take you back after dumping you in the firstplace because you were terribly unsubstantial for their needs.

You should really stop writing this letter to yourself, you know. You reallize how much of a plea for appreciation it is, and yet you continue writing away. You feel that pain in your right wrist? Yup. It's probably carpel-tunnel (learn to spell, you jackass). You can stop with the hypochondria as well. You tell yourself that it's a sign of high intelligence, and you may have even lied yourself into believing it, but really, it's just you being ridiculous.

I can't put this any other way but the next two weeks are going to be hell for you. You'll feel terribly insignificant, and you'll fail miserably at the tasks you'll attempt to accomplish. You might as well disregard any of those silly little horoscopes you sometimes think of. "Wow, they're accurate," is another misnomer. You just ache for someplace to fit in. It's with this that I have to leave you. I'm cooking a chicken pot pie, you see, and eventhough it's frozen, and easily done, and eventhough you could have PROBABLY (well, maybe) concoted one yourself, it's nearing the burning point.
Less than salutatious,
Yourself.