Nuns Give More Fucks Than Me

There is now a major lack of space for filing complaints without qualms with advertisers or potential employers peering in. Facebook, Twitter—nowhere is safe anymore to publish an opinion without suffering the peanut gallery backlash. Let’s just be clear that complaining isn’t valid unless somebody hears it, so don’t give me that “write in a diary” bullshit. Look what I found on somebody’s blog a couple of days ago:

“I really don’t want to go to class tomorrow. I hate going places when I feel like this. I hate moving, I hate leaving my room or my bed. It’s so fucking weak, I know that, I know I’m a fucking coward but i don’t know what else to do. Like, I just don’t even understand, I can’t comprehend whats going on around me. I’m so tired, and yet I can’t sleep. I’m so lonely, but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I hate being at home, doing nothing, but I don’t know how to live outside. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I need someone to tell me what I’m supposed to do because I don’t know. I pretend, and I act like I am trying to be my own person and fuck all the rest, but I can’t be my own person because I don’t know how. It’s like I don’t want to. I just give up instead. I’m so confused about whether I give up because I’m lazy or whether I give up because I reach dead ends. I’m sorry it’s 2 AM and I need to be up in four hours. Fuck. I don’t even know. Everything is just fucking déjà vu because every week is just the same as the last. I’m always the fucking same old unfuckingpredictable chaotic mess. It’s déjà vu to the point where I think I am going insane. Everything is just a repeat of everything else and i don’t know if I’m stuck in some kind of skipping tape.”

News flash: you’re not stuck. You’re just waiting for validation. A virtual slap in the face. Do you see? This person is searching for somebody to talk to, or somebody who can tell them what to do. Lord knows that anything (s)he publishes online will be combed over by the fourth sex and Beyoncé. Frankly, not giving a fuck usually works, unless you’re on a paycheck from your reader. Apathy has become my new best friend, and I’ve slowly transformed into the protagonist of every Bret Easton Ellis novel. No one care. Move on. Why are people still afraid to do what they want? Terry Richardson is still employed.