Whatever you think, you're wrong. It's all been about me.

I'm gullible, naive, susceptible, vulnerable. I'm sweet. I get hateful, but it's a temporary expression of emotionalism, not real hate. I'm moody. To counteract the emotions, I stifle them and attempt to seem as though I have none. I'm smarter than I seem sometimes, but sometimes I'm not as smart as I seem. I'm younger than my chronological age. I've been the butt of many jokes and expect to be the butt of many more. I'm awkward, shy, nervous, fidgety. I'm always afraid of doing the wrong thing. I don't want people to get angry. I don't like to upset people, but I often do. I'm unintentionally cold. I'm socially retarded. I'm sarcastic. I'm rude. I'm a bit of a whore. But not really. I do like to dress like one, but I'm intensely loyal. At least, until I feel betrayed. Then the bitter hateful side comes out for a visit. I'm one of those girls who gets along better with guys. I always have and I'm tired of feeling guilty about it. I'm insecure and paranoid.

I spent most of my life, as far back as I can remember, questioning my every move, action, thought; looking at every side of every behaviour. I learned before I could talk that my natural instincts and reactions were wrong. People get disturbed and/or angry when I am myself. I learned that the real me was appalling. Since I was a very young child, I learned that the right thing to do is to sit quietly, look pretty, and try not to bother anyone. That behaviour alternates with being angry, bitter, loud and just not giving a fuck what anybody thought. Making myself as unlikable as possible to fulfill the belief that nobody likes me and convincing myself I like it better that way.

Once drugs and alcohol entered the picture, it was so much easier to flip between hiding who I was and getting away with awful behaviour because I was wasted (and it was funny). And then people started to like me (or like laughing at me), so I got stuck in that rut for a long time. Rambling, laughing, yelling, lifting my skirt, kisses, being lewd and crude, belching, spitting, puking all over a bunch of King Konqueror fans, etc.

I usually don't embarrass easily and I don't have that many regrets. I'd rather just own up to my mistakes, learn from them, and move on. One of my biggest mistakes was this blog. It gives people fuel, often misinterpreted, and makes me an easier target. I wear my heart on my sleeve (sometimes) and nothing I say is anybody's business anyway. But, in ways, it feels like it's the only thing that's mine. I don't know why anyone reads it. Maybe you relate to some things I say. Maybe you are a friend who's really interested. Maybe you are a frenemy (I hate made up tabloid words) who needs material to passive-aggressively, sarcastically throw into conversation. Maybe you think I don't pick up on it since I'm trying to let on that it doesn't bother me.

Don't think I was ever looking for pity. I have this thing so I don't have to burden my friends with being a pity case.

But it is about me. And self-sabotage. I learned from my mother to run away and start over when things cease being perfect. It's a defense mechanism I haven't avoided for so long before. You know the cliche. Hurt them before they hurt you. Love is understanding and accepting the worse with the better. I'm so lucky.

Clearly this want to fix things in my life goes back at least a year.