June 14th, 1991
I am seriously concerned about myself. I am rarely if ever happy. It bothers me. Here I am, an intelligent, talented individual who for the life of her CANNOT stay happy. I do not enjoy writing entry after entry about my so-called teenage angst. I’d much rather write about how completely content I am with my life and surroundings but NEWSFLASH: I’m not.
I don’t like staying up nights being jeered by tiny trials that don’t compare to shit in the real world. I do not have any major problems. Everything I suffer from is created by me. I’m just completely dissatisfied. I can’t help but think that there is something more than waking up, going to school, feigning conversation, checking the clock, going to practice and going home. I rarely have a good time when I go out. I think the most fun I had this weekend was when I beat T and G in air hockey. Just those two games alone. Nothing more. Otherwise, the whole weekend was a waste. But at least going out with the group spared me having to figure out what I was going to do that night. I’m just so sick of complaining. But for me to instantly say, “Hey. Life isn’t so bland. It’s wonderful. I’m having wonderful conversations with the most wonderful people in the world and all is just wonderful” would be a goddam crock of shit and I know it. I hate being this way. I hate writing the same redundant melodramatic complaints. I just want to be happy. I want bliss. I’ll probably live to be 150 years old and still be complaining about the amount of life I’ve wasted. I can’t take it.
