Do I Look Happy?

Here, how ’bout now?

Does this dress make me look thin?

Oh look! People liked it when I said something kind of witty…now I have to wait until tomorrow and put up something else moderately witty, otherwise people will stop thinking I’m funny. And I wouldn’t want that.

How about now, does my life look perfect? Look at how much fun I’m having!

Aren’t you jealous? Wait, but not actually jealous, I don’t want you to really be jealous. You’re just joking jealous, right? Because, like, I promise, my life really isn’t that perfect or pretty or exciting. It just looks that way, because well, who is going to put up their ugly sh*t and air dirty laundry. I mean, we all have those friends that do, but no one wants to be like them. We talk sh*t about them, right? So here, take another picture of us smiling before we go back to talking about how much we hate our lives while eating our comfort food to get us through the fact that we don’t feel loved.

She looks better in that picture than me, so I won’t put it up. Well at least I won’t tag her. Dammit, someone tagged her. I should take it down. Should I take it down? No, that’s ridiculous.

Do I look fat in that bathing suit? Wait, am I worried about the fact that you’ve now all seen me half naked? Hmm, not really. Should I be? Probably. I feel weird about this now. Oh well. I’ll let it go. Here’s a picture of my puppy to compensate.

Nobody liked that post. Maybe no one saw it. Maybe I should delete it and post it again at a better time. Maybe people saw it and no one cared. Maybe they didn’t like it. Maybe they just didn’t care. Oh God, no one cares. I don’t even care. Wait, why do I care?

Hurry quick, someone tell me I look pretty, otherwise all of my insecurities will be validated and I’ll end up forever alone.

Why I Drink Caffeine

So tonight, I already wrote an insomnia induced post, so I won’t post this one…but I’ll post it later (or I guess now, according to you?), you’re welcome.

A while ago a wrote about being addicted to coffee. Fun fact, apparently I’m a recovering addict, sort of? I haven’t had coffee in a couple of weeks. And I’m terrified to have one, even though tomorrow I know I’ll need one. But I haven’t had one, and I feel like it’s an accomplishment, and as soon as I have one, I know that accomplishment gets washed down the drain. Anyhow, it wasn’t an intentional withdrawal at first. I was just happy and excited and awake and it felt good to have that induced by something[one] other than a drink. So I went with it. For a couple of days. And then, then it became, it became this thing. So I drink water at work. And in the afternoon sometimes, I drink Coke.

Sometimes I drink Coke.

Does that not completely nullify the accomplishments of not drinking coffee? Yes, of course it does, but don’t tell me that! I like to think I’m still accomplishing something other than just work during my workday!

So why do I do it? Why do I still drink Coke. I drink it when I know it will keep me awake. Like tonight, I had it for dinner. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I knew I’d be tired tomorrow. And somehow, I chose to do it anyways. What reckless abandon I display. Someone should call the cops and have them arrest me for being a juvenile delinquent…except, despite my forgetting, I’m pretty sure I’m not a juvenile anymore. I mean, if I broke the law, they wouldn’t send me to juvy at least.

Anyhow, I drink it even though I hate the way it makes me feel. I hate how when I’m tired, I can’t sleep. I hate how sometimes, it makes my skin crawl. Makes me feel like I’m in desperate need to run out of my own body. Makes me feel slightly manic. Sometimes.

But sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes I can sleep. So it’s like roulette, and it’s a gamble, and I love to gamble I guess. Maybe that’s why?

Or maybe it’s because I know I shouldn’t. And in most decisions I make, I do what I should, even if it isn’t what I want. In most things, I walk the line. So in my caffeine drinks, I rebel. I rebel against the man…and myself. Because that makes sense. When I was in college, one of my best friends…actually many of my best friends…would try to prevent me from drinking Coke. It was my weakness. They all knew it made me sick (oh yeah, not only does caffeine keep me shaky, but acidic things burn like a b*tch). And they would literally argue with me, and physically pull Cokes from my prying fingers. Why they are still friends with me is beyond me. Why I fought with them is also beyond me.

Maybe it’s a form of self punishment. Like I deserve to be tired for not accomplishing all of the greatness I’d like to have accomplished by now. So there, TAKE THAT SELF! You’re a failure, and now you can’t sleep AND you’ll be tired tomorrow! But I don’t know if my subconscious is that evil.

Maybe it’s a form of self reward. And a testament to my future strength. You want a Coke? I mean you shouldn’t, but ok, you’ve earned it. I mean, you like, went to work today, so that was good. Good job. Drink up darling, don’t worry, future you can totally handle it! I can’t decide if my subconscious gives me too much credit, or if I give my subconscious too much credit. Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m somehow getting far too much credit, and probably reading into my caffeine habits way too much.

I give up.

I Was Blogging Before it was Cool

I know what you’re thinking, “Wait, blogging is cool? Since when?” Of course it’s cool…or not cool, obviously, because it’s too mainstream. But anyhow, the point is, I was totally doing it before like, it went all viral on the internet and stuff. Now you’re thinking, “Wait, that doesn’t make any sense, you invented blogging? But I thought you just started this, like a year ago?” Ok, don’t worry, I promise to explain, and also to stop talking like a valley girl (like, maybe).

So when I was just a child…as in from the point at which I could write, I was blogging. Back then, we called it keeping a diary, and it required a pen and paper. It usually involved describing your inner thoughts in a place that no one was supposed to read. It was where I could be open and honest and sort through things. Where I could figure out which boy I really liked more, and document the subtle cruelties of having two older brothers.
Good heavens, she’s right! She was totally a blogger (these italicized things are totally your thoughts by the way)

Even back then I was terrible at keeping a steady log. I would sporadically write. Sometimes it was every day, and sometimes I was diligent at making sure I didn’t write anything for weeks…or months…until I desperately needed it. Until somehow I got to the very brink of going insane, before I remembered I’d been practicing the perfect therapy. That’s what blogging is for me. It’s therapy.
Wait, so does that make me her therapist? Am I getting paid to read this? Should I be getting paid to read this? You’d totally have to be paying me to still be reading this…

And just like my diaries, I write in a train of thought meant for only me to understand. It is written specifically for me to cope, or document, or explain. It’s written for me to put my innermost feelings on paper, in a secret place where no one will ever read them.
Wait, is she being serious? Like, I know I don’t understand half of what she says because, ADD! ADD! ADD! But, she does know, I’m reading this right? Wait, am I getting paid for this?

Except of course that everyone someone will read them. Just like my diary. Except I’m pretty sure no one will ever actually read my diaries. I am pretty sure they won’t care just how many different ways thirteen year old me could modify my initials, only to realize the ones I have are really the only ones I plan on actually keeping. But I always assumed that they would. I can tell you this, in confidence, not because I remember having the feeling like someone was sneaking in and stealing my secrets, but because I wrote an entire diary where each entry began “Dear Reader”…as if someone would find it and give two sh*ts. Someone other than me of course, who would desperately like to find that diary but currently can’t, because I’m not sure if it’s part of another one, or an actual separate book. Who knows. I’ve never completed an entire diary in my life. Legitimately. It’s on my list of things to do before I die (most people call that a bucket list…), and then I crossed it off my list, because I thought I had completed one. But then just now, when looking for my “Dear Reader” diary, I realized the book I thought I finished was still half empty, and I drew a lot of stick figures showing the spacial orientation of party guests. See, I’m so good at blogging.
Wait, was that supposed to make any sense? Was I supposed to get that? I think I missed it. But I’m pretty sure, it means you have an internal struggle over who you want to be, and you need to follow your heart…or something like that? Wait, are you still sitting on my couch? Are we done here?

Yes. We’re done here.

Author’s note: No one received compensation for reading this post, though many of you probably should. Thanks anyways peeps! xoxo Anna

Editor’s note: It’s late and I can’t sleep, so this is what you get. Deal with it. Also, the editor would like to note, that in this case, she is the same person as the author, which is not true in all cases. Perhaps in the future, I’ll let my actual editors make notes. But maybe not.