A teenage rant about happiness and relationships, and how I am confused by both.
|Happiness. It seems like something we really take advantage of, yet when it is absent, the gaping hole which it leaves behind becomes infected so easily, weeping mucus into every aspect of life.
Is it too much to ask for, I am healthy, my family is relatively stable, both emotionally and financially, yet I cannot just be content. I want to feel like I belong, like I am needed, like I am loved. Is that naive of me? Is it self-centred? I want a guy from a story, or a movie, I want to fall in love and live happily ever after, or to have a guy find me broken and fix me up. I can’t believe that I kid myself with this romanticised bullshit. I’ve always despised girls who go crazy over celebrities and put them up on white horses, and yet recently, I have found myself doing the very same thing and I hate myself for it.
I have been brought up in a house where idiocy and frivolousness are some of the few things which are forbidden. It is never voiced, nor openly disapproved of, yet if I was to bring in a gossip magazine or a “chick flick” around my parents...well I just wouldn’t because that’s just not the kind of stuff we are into. We are too sensible for all that “crap”. Well guess what, IM A FRICKEN TEENAGE GIRL!! Frivolity comes with the hormones. I love gossip, and I cry to every romantic movie I watch. Get over it!
I hate feeling like this. Empty. Lost. I guess what I really want is a steady boy friend. I’ve tried to tell myself that I’m too young for all this commitment stuff but I’m sick of kidding myself, I’m not gonna slut my way out of being miserable. I‘m not as immature as a lot of people my age, but in ways I’m so behind them, I thought that just by trying every guy I could...maybe I’d find my prince charming.
I just wish someone understood me. I just wish someone would tell me, for no apparent reason at all, that I am beautiful, even if I look awful that day, because, for once, just once, I wish someone loved me for me, not for my tits or my ass, or my brains, or my ability to cook, or because I’m something they can brag to their friends about; for me, the real me.
Stupid, I know. Oh well.