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April Fool (i.e. Liz)
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What Started As a Fucking Good Week...
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Wow. Long-stemmed red roses. An autographed, unsolicited picture from a movie star. Chatting with a gorgeous, intelligent, funny guy, even making a date. You'd think I was somebody special, wouldn't you?
Yes, for three days, maybe even four, I was genuinely happy this week. (Call the papers! No, wait -- they've just been scooped by me.) I was in a daze, thinking my life was changing for the better. All of a sudden it seemed like I was here on this planet for a purpose, that there was a void that I was filling, not just taking up space in, but -filling- as a whole, important, and good person. I thought people cared. Why? I have no fucking clue how I drew these conclusions. Just was hoping like the idiot I am that things were going to get better for me. After all, that kind of stuff doesn't happen to the Invisible Man...it happens to Somebody.
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Well, Liz is still Nobody. Little Nobody, at that. I can't change my identity. Who I am, what I look like, where I'm going. I can't change the fact that any hot, hilarious, semi-sane guy is going to either have a girlfriend or to want me as a friend (or the fact that any sore loser is going to be attracted to me because he can't get anything better). I can't change the fact that although Susan Sarandon (or her publicist) sent me an autographed picture, she still wouldn't recognize me on the street, let alone know my name, in a million years. I can't change the fact that the red roses are a gesture telling me to cheer up, and I just can't. I can't because no matter how many times I look in the mirror, I am still me. Liz, Little Nobody. Forgotten in a heartbeat Liz. Liz, your favorite person, your dedicated and loyal diva. Girl who sits alone and waits for nothing to happen.
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The Importance of Being Nobody
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And you, my Green-Eyed Liz.
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Fuck. I know I'm goofy looking except in certain lights. I know I feel sorry for myself more than anybody else could possibly handle hearing about. I know even though people say Liz is a smart girl, Liz is really a fucking dumbass. I know there's just no spark in me, no beautiful thing that draws people in and makes them want to know me. I know I was born to be wallpaper.
You ever feel like most of the "popular" people you know (Jesus, are we back in high school now?) are the most overrated, fake bullshit artists in existence? And in order to be as loved as them, in order to be the star, you have to sculpt yourself into another fake? What motivates a person to make themselves known, get themselves a high-paying job and a significant other people would be green with envy over? Who do you bribe in order to be born pretty? How come nobody thinks my jokes are funny? If you know the answers to these questions, please, I'm begging you, e-mail me and let me know.
Yes, I still want to move away just to prove that nobody would notice I was gone. I'm now going to give the obligatory "Somebody, please kill me" line and shuffle off to bed, so I can sleep the sleep of the pathetic. 'Night, now.
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Home
Go ahead, torture yourself some more.
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Last Entry
Browse further into the depths of our shallow Liz.
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Rick's Poems
If you don't know who Rick is, fuck off. Or go rent some episodes of "The Young Ones" ... now.
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Do me in an uncomfortable place:
blahoobie
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Click to the Left, You Sheep.
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