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Since I really doubt anyone looks at this anymore. If you are, well, ********, good for you. Have fun reading my rant that sounds like a sailor that's just been shot in the foot. I curse a lot here. Be warned, this is pretty ******** long, but it's gold if you like reading about this kind of stuff.

I just feel like ranting. And since I haven't found a person to rant to that doesn't either try to tell me what I'm doing wrong, try to tell me what to do right, or criticize the s**t out of me (or ******** abandon me altogether), here's a good a place as any. s**t's been on my mind recently and won't get the ******** out, even though I try distracting myself and try talking to people (see above). Most of them ditch me halfway through the conversation, anyway, I think because they either don't have the decency to tell me they need to go, or they don't have the balls to answer some question I've asked (or say they don't want to answer it). So here I go:

Why do I keep trying, again? Why do I keep thinking anyone will like me? I mean, hell, I've been getting compliments recently. Random guys walk up to me and start talking to me nervously. And it's just freaking me out. It's weird. I'm not used to it. I half wish I was back at a time when no one looked at me twice.

i thought you wanted this, though. didn't you say you wish people would think you're pretty?

Some ******** half-assed thought. It's not something I wish for, it's something I've been trained to wish for, something that surfaces despite all my efforts to repress it. I've been taught that status and beauty go together, and that blonde and blue-eyed and busty and thin and pale are the ideals of beauty.

I'm little of that, if none. I've got black hair, brown eyes. Average-to-small breasts (36B isn't really busty; I don't even have cleavage). Pot-belly stomach. Tanned because I'm Middle Eastern. I'm sure I'm some exotic beauty (if the way Persian men in their fifties on the bus used to stare at me is anything to go by). But, [********]. I don't see it. I look at myself and I see glasses and pimples and hair that falls out and chapped lips (one's abnormally larger than the other) and

you can't see your own worth.

What worth?

exactly.

Nope. I just don't. I tell myself I'm awesome and I'm gorgeous and any guy would be lucky to have me

and yet it doesn't seem much like guys want to be lucky. Just doesn't.

I close myself up because I think no one will like me and I think the ones that say they do are just using me for their own purposes, to validate themselves. That they'll leave me no matter what I say or do, sooner than later. They lie. They cheat. They whisper anything to get me to respond the way they want, to make themselves feel better. Yeah, there are two or three guys that, hey, if you're reading this, HI THERE. Nice to see you. For two of you, long time no talk. Yeah, I usually tell you I'm totally fine with the way things are. But -- you know what? I'm just going to lash out now. I'm going to use names, specific names. If they have a problem with it, so be it. You can just tell me. You can yell at me or curse me out if it makes you feel any ******** better.

To the guys I liked or entertained any thought of liking.

Anthony, you ******** broke my heart. No, that's an understatement: you took it from me pretty much by force (since I told you several times I wasn't ready for a relationship, but no, you NEEDED me); you tore it up into two, put those pieces in a shredder, burned the little bits left. Then you put my heart back together with a few sweet words. And then you repeated the process. Eventually you handed the ashy mess back to me with a smile while you skipped off to your new girlfriend. No, I do not want to be in a ******** relationship with you. I already had trust issues before you came along. Now, every time a guy says something that reminds me of something you said, I tense up. It's even harder to trust guys, because I think, he's probably jerking me around, too.

You begged for forgiveness. You begged for friendship. I gave them to you. You were a ******** kid. You were fifteen, you didn't know your a** from your elbow. I forgive you for all the stupid blind s**t you did. But forgiveness is not another goddamned chance. See, you maxed out your chance card a couple of times over, and then threatened the bank into giving you some more. The bank is willing to give you a savings account, but you are not getting another ******** card. You're lucky to have friendship. I'll listen to you if you have to complain about something. I won't listen to you if you want me to listen to you play guitar, because I don't know how many hours I spent doing that. ********, you won't read my work at all, no matter how many times I ask you, EVEN STILL. Fair is fair.

Paul, I can't say I'm nearly as annoyed with you as with Marie Antoinette up there, but you kind of hurt me, too. You were tripping all over yourself to get a way to talk to me without having to rely on Gaia, yeah. I finally trusted you enough to give you my number. Added you on Facebook (you were the first person I added without ever having met). And then you treated me like I didn't really matter. You're one of my bluntest friends, a trait I treasure, because it meant you didn't bullshit with excuses and stuff -- most of the time. But sometimes you couldn't bring yourself to care enough to be like, "Hey, I'm not feeling good, I'm probably not gonna answers texts for a while." Or "Hey, I don't really want to talk to you right now." Nope, just had to leave me hanging.

I mean, s**t. I did my best to be honest with you. Even when I had a goddamned dream about one of my friends because I was annoyed with you for never talking to me. I told you about it. I told you how I felt. Then I told him about it so he could reject me and I'd get the ******** over him, because I felt like I was betraying you even though we weren't in a freaking relationship, and just acted like we were.

And then you couldn't tell me straight-away that you'd stopped having feelings for me? Yeah, because I'm definitely not going to notice that you're acting all weird for a couple days. That's just ridiculous, that I have to push you to be honest with me. I mean, if I'd blown up at you or something, it'd be one thing. But I don't think I'd been anything but calm and understanding, or at least I tried my goddamned best to be, for you. You weren't scared of me getting mad. Nope, you just pitied me. You didn't want to hurt my feelings, like I'm a goddamned child. We're both adults and mature enough to ******** communicate. You could have just told me instead of stringing me along for a few days until I forced you to tell me what was wrong. You were eighteen years old, and in college, and you can't lie and say you're afraid of confrontation, because you had no damn problem telling me you didn't find me physically attractive.

Oh, and it would have been nice if you could have told me the first day we started talking again, before my birthday. Want to know something? The reason I said I wanted to wait my for my eighteenth before we'd officially be in a relationship was...two things: 1) I wanted to be of legal age so I wouldn't be freaking jailbait for you, and 2) I know of your fickle nature. You're a flirt. You said you toned it down, sure, but that's not the same as not being a flirt anymore. So I had the feeling you'd ditch me before my birthday.

I just didn't think I'd have to force you to be honest with me and pretty much ditch me ON my birthday. And I know you felt bad about it. I appreciate that, you had the decency to realize that. But that could've been avoided if you'd been honest earlier.

And finally, Mark. I just don't even ******** know what to put here. I mean, once I realized you have a girlfriend, I automatically put you on the off-limits list (a trick I learned thanks to my relationship with Marie Antoinette up there). We had a nice friendship. I was careful. I kind of acted towards you the way I do towards Markachu: I take pretty much everything you say with a grain of salt. I don't take it personally.

And then you started flirting with me and telling me you think I'm hot (or, what was it you said? You'd do me, or something like that). Which just confused the ******** out of me. That's different from the sexual innuendo. That's different from your usual jokes. You're a guy, I get it, you make dirty jokes, I do, too. Way different from whatever the ******** it was you said.

And then came that freaking phone call from -- shoot, less than a month ago. September 12th, because it's still in my phone's call history. Two hours, twenty-nine minutes, forty-six seconds. Most of which you spent trying to get me to touch myself. I kept my guard up for most of that call because I was confused as all ********; you said something about your girlfriend being out of contact with you and then every time I asked further you'd just tell me to shut the ******** up about it. And yes, I could like you. Probably do, now. Because you doing that managed to get you off the off-limits list and somewhere in limbo, and now I don't know how to feel. That's why I was trying to freaking talk to you yesterday; because I feel like you used me and cheated on your girlfriend with me while still in a relationship with her. That makes me the other chick. That's someone I really don't want to be, since Drama Queen Marie Antoinette cheated on me pretty much the same way (and then told me about it, and then lied to me saying he was just trying to piss me off, and then a year and a half later told me he'd been lying about lying and had really cheated on me then).

I don't want to ******** do that to your girlfriend. I don't want to do that to ANYONE. And then yesterday, when I gather up enough courage to ask you (knowing you'll probably just ******** with my head some more), you tell me it's a test. And that I did well. What the [******** [********] is that supposed to mean?! And then you say you won't tell me what the test is on, at the same time telling me you didn't use me. Well, what the ******** am I supposed to think, you b*****d? Am I supposed to accept the idea that you were whispering to me what you'd do to me if I were there and if you could (yeah, it was really late at night, but I can remember you saying something about "and then I'd eat you out..." and something else about penetration), and that's a TEST? Why, because you kept asking me if I was doing anything or touching myself, and I kept saying no? Was that the test?

Granted, I'm sure I probably encouraged it, partly because I was curious and partly because I didn't know what the ******** HELL was going on. But at least I have the courage to ask you if it's phone sex or not, or whatever the ******** it was. Seriously, Jesus ******** Christ. Just ******** tell me. Grow a pair and answer the goddamned question. You keep beating around the ******** bush.

And after that night, I decided not to talk to you for a while, maybe it'll settle back down. Nope, that never works. Maybe if I talk to you and act mostly normal? Nope, doesn't work either. Two nights ago I had a freaking dream about you. I don't even remember what was going on. I remember at some point you were telling me to trust you. Not that you'd ever say that in real life. You told me last night you look down on yourself and everyone else. You think you're not trustworthy and ask me why I even bother. I'd like to know the same thing. Why do you bother with me? Why do you ******** with my head like this?

I got curious when I realized you have a journal. So I looked at it. I found the one you wrote the morning afterwards, pretty much a couple hours after the phone call. You know the one I'm talking about, right? This one? Entitled oh-so-eloquently: "easy c**, easy blow". So is it about me? Hm? Or did you just happen to come up with a poem the morning after talking to me? Good luck making my body shake. You got shivers to dance up and down my spine, but that's as far as you got. You'd need to really be here to get more than that out of me.

If you ever read this, you can go ahead and yell at me and get mad at me and stuff, since I'm pretty much putting out personal information about you, I'm sure. Go ahead, text me. Call me. I dare you. You can tell me how much you want to jam a butcher knife into my chest, between my ribs, crack open my sternum, stab my heart, until I stop moving. 'Til I stop breathing. 'Til my blood starts congealing. Tell me how much you want to smash my head in with a brick until I'm on the floor and my head is a mess of splintered pieces of bone and cartilage and blood and oozing, pulsing brain matter, and my face is unrecognizable. Tell me how you want to carve into my arms and legs until my arteries are ragged slices of flesh, mi sangre caliente derramándose como una cascada. Hasta que estás empapada en mi sangre. Would you like that?

Yeah, I am [********] disturbing sometimes. You're almost as disturbing, if not equally so, and I know that probably didn't throw you off much. But you're not a killer. I've met killers before. I've gotten a few of them to threaten to kill me (and they were wholly capable of doing it). Marvelous fun.

Anyway. Yeah. I guess that's the end of my rant. I'm really hoping one (or all) of you guys read this. Especially Mark, since my being pissed-off at you is a current thing, unlike the other two.

I don't even ******** know. People just need to stop lying to me and dodging questions. s**t, I answer questions if you ask me, most of the time. And if I'm not, I'm probably just screwing around and joking. Just tell me to stop screwing around and I'll stop. I mean it.

Well. That got something off my chest. At least it's out here and not in my head, mostly. This is gonna be a public entry. Anyone and everyone can read this. I don't give a crap. Judge me if you will. Go ahead. I don't really care. Comment and flame me, yell at me. I'd love the challenge. I'd love to make you look like a damn idiot. Come on, give me something to do.

I'm eager to do the job.