Oh, the possibilities that stem from regret…
Lately I have been conflicted as to why I keep this around. Once upon a time it was my crutch, the only thing that gave me hope that one day I could escape... and now it is merely a $10 deduction on my credit card that makes me wonder if I am getting my money's worth. Now it is just something else that I'm not doing as much as people would like me to. Now it is just the highway to my regret and disappointment... a mockery of my once thought abilities and commitment.
It has been years since I've been satisfied with my writing. And it is only frustrating that despite my efforts to restore my "talents" that I still feel embarrassed after reading my own entries. What do you do once you can no longer fool yourself? Do you not, in a sense, become a fool when the task of comforting yourself only cripples you? While I do not believe in helplessness, I do believe in inability. Yet I am nothing else but helpless.
Why can't I ever save any money? At the present moment I have a whopping $30 in my bank account, and that is all I have left to show for the $883.65 net pay I made at Giant. Where in the world did it go? While I did do some shopping for things I have needed over the past year, they were not extreme enough to deplete all of my funds. I read other people's journals, saying how they bought the things they needed yet still had some money for later... so why can't I? Am I shopping at all the wrong places? Or is it because that whenever I get a job, it's a hard stretch to get my parents to even buy shampoo for me, let alone aiding me in purchasing any clothes so that I may go to my new office jobs and actually meet the standards of their dress codes? Possibly, maybe that's why. But who really knows.
On a side note, I only have two outfits that even come close to meeting the standards of most dress codes. Though I love doing my mother the favor, I may need to reconsider paying for her to get her nails done every 3 weeks or so.
I wish my journal was so much more than it was. Most of all, I wish it was what it was before it was all ruined. It took some time to restore whatever trust I had in this journal, but I think my comfort from it has been robbed forever. Most everyone that read my about my life religiously have all forgotten that I even existed. Does that make me less of a person? Perhaps not, but I do notice that I no longer feel as full. I feel more alone.
I doubt I have been making much sense, jumping blindly from one topic to the next. In truth, I have been attempting to write the way I wish I could everytime my hands touch the keys. Even though it is not me, even though I struggle over every sentence, I have been trying. And while I feel good about it now, I know by tomorrow it will only be one more thing I was mistaken of, one more thing that will never be as good as I had wanted, and one more thing I wish I had never done.
The moral of the story: I am no good at my own life.