Wait, what?
Why am I so tired?

I'm so full of contradictions right now.
I'm miserable and lonely.
But all I want to do is make people laugh and smile.
I'd like to be appreciated, a pat on the shoulder or a hug once in a while.
I guess I feel a little bit used and I'm starting to notice it all.
Or maybe it's the effects of being sick for a goddamned week.
Tripping out alone in my living room.
Muscles tense, muscles sore.
Can't even talk, voice is still fucked up.
Looking at anatomical diagrams of muscular, naked men makes me want to be loving
But I really felt so alone.
There are chills in my stomach sometimes when I realize the state I'm in.
There is an unpleasant feeling in my intestines when I realize it's only been two months since we broke up.
It's felt like ages, I've grown, aged and fossilized.
I look at people I meet with such adept cynicism, I write short stories about them in my skull.
They're knocking about, ready to break loose.
I have a mild distaste for women at the moment, and I'd love to fill my life with men I couldn't care less about.
But it's just not my style.
Maybe I need to push the envelope, learn how to be creative again.
I don't know how to do that. I really don't.
I have doubts about my potential and ability as an artist. How the hell do I have a 72 in visual arts class?
I'm an embarrassment to myself, and my dreams are naught but a joke.
I'll be a bloated English teacher at an all-boy's Catholic school with the progress I'm making in my life.
It's not worth my efforts, I'll never be good enough.
I don't have talent, and my mind is shot.
I look at younger people with their creativity and zest and I want to cry.
I think of all the problems of other lives I've held in my hands and had slipped away;
I couldn't do a thing to fix them.
I couldn't do a thing to help.
All I did was listen and hope I was doing the right thing.
But now I don't even have the investment, energy, time to care.
I'm average. I'm afraid to admit it. What if I'm wrong? What if I'm right?
But I think back to what I've been through and my arrogance screams at me like a pregnant tiger. "You can always do better."
What the hell is better? I go for those who aren't good for me and I revel in this bullshit. Cigarettes and cologne and I crave him every time I see him. Just a chance... No.
I want to have a social experiment. I want to use people. I want to shake the foundations of what? Damage me. Damage him. Damage the fragile world around him.
I read in the newspaper last week: Men don't like funny women. What the hell? Why do I bother making someone laugh and having a sense of humour?
All it really did was explain the inconceivable fear... that boys have around me.
Abrasive. Arrogant. Aggressive. Me. But at least I've got a good joke to ease the blow.
LOVE ME, DAMMIT, LOVE ME. A SIMPLE QUESTION OF LOVE AND DEVOTION AND YOU ALL TURN YOUR HEADS IN FEAR.

It's the problem, here:
I really miss the feeling of being in love. Don't tell anyone.