Cheater

Sometimes, you know, when you cheat, you do always end up getting hurt. It took me until now to realize that old life lesson everyone tells you when you're five. I mean why is it so hard to admit that you're wrong? Are you too stubborn, or are you just afraid? If you are afraid, of what? What are you afraid of? Why would you be scared? If being scared is what prevents you from dreaming or doing things you've always wanted to do, then why even bother? I guess, I don't know, I didn't even want that to happen. And what the hell am I talking about? Really, what am I saying? I don't even know the purpose of this post, the purpose of what I'm suppose to do. God is telling me to be a missionary, I don't want to be a missionary. I want to be a veterinarian, and he knows that more then anyone else could have ever known. So, why would he do that? That is my question, or better yet: those are my questions that need to be answered. If you know the answer to any of them, just contact me on my freaking e-mail. I'm sure you can find it, seeing as no one else has ever emailed me. Am I sinking into depression? Or do I just want to feel really sorry for myself, am I really doing it for the attention? What are those words, what did they mean when I typed them? Were they meant to hurt you? Were they meant to hurt someone else? I'm afraid I've met a roadblock, a roadblock I'm not able to move, ever. He doesn't love me, yes I know you've seen this before: 'Oh he doesn't love-' you don't love him, you like him okay? And I don't even feel like color coordinating like I normally do. Am I loosing my passion to write? Have I got no inspiration anymore? Did that sentence/question even make sense? Why do I type the wrong letters, but I know what I want to type? Why? Why does my left boob seem smaller then the right? Why does the right side of my back hurt? Why? Why do I ask these questions when I know all of the answers? You know why, everyone knows why, it's so clear to you but not to me right? Or is it clear? What is my answer? Do I even get to answer it? Did I inspire anyone besides myself or my friends? Do I even inspire my friends? Did I make them create such a lovely story or sonnet of words linked together to make sense? Did he ever even give me those glances I hoped he did? I know the answer to that one: No, no, no, no, no, no, no! No! None of these make sense anymore! I don't make sense, maybe I'm already dead and reliving my life is punishment. Maybe I secretly know I'm really going to hell, maybe I'm just saying that. Maybe I wished it to be true sometimes, maybe I did just say that? How do I point out the lies of my own thoughts - because I want to look good - and the truth? The reasons why I didn't even bother to mumble that. I don't even remember half of the things I wanted to write in the past week or so. I can't even keep track of myself. The summer is almost over, almost. And how did I live it this time? Differently, most likely, because I didn't want it to be the same? Or I just didn't know? Who really knows? Who actually bothers to write this? I do. Who actually bothers to read this? I don't know who. I don't know, I just had hopes for this. I wanted this to change lives or give someone who has nothing to do something to read about. Something real, something normal, something average, something beautiful so to speak. Something about me, the real me? Could it be that Margarita is just an alter-ego of myself? Not really, but it's possible, I've always had a name for my crazy imaginary side: Ace. Ace, you see, started when my friend did a role play. I joined in on the fun, and it became so much more. I became so much more. I could practically feel for goodness sake! But Ace didn't do that part, God did. He knew, for some odd reason, that this was going to change me. And it did, it did really change me. It helped me through the badness, so even if I leave tonight, I know I let my feelings out before I died with a grudge. This is not my final blog post, far from it. This is only the beginning, the beginning of something great.