Don’t Shake, I Hate To See You Tremble…

Did you guys ever realize that the number of entries I write is directly proportionate to the number of notes I get?  No?

Now, I’m not a very mathematical person, but essentially, it’s kind of like this:
1 entry -> 0 notes -> 0 entries for the next week or two
1 entry -> 1 note -> 0 entries for the next 3 to 7 days
1 entry -> 2 or 3 notes -> 1 entry within 3 days
1 entry -> 4+ notes -> 1 entry within 36 hours of previous entry

Get it?  I won’t chastize you for the fact that I didn’t get any notes on the last entry, because it was a survey, but honestly.  And no, I’m not begging for notes, but who doesn’t like to get them?  Doesn’t it make you feel good to get a note or two on your diary entries, people?  Makes you feel like people are actually reading, and that they actually care just a little bit about how your day went, or your week, or that they want to know how the relationship you just got into is doing.  Or how the problems you’re having with your mother are going.  Or if you still love your job as much as you did when you first got it.

This feels like home.  This feels like the way I feel when I’m at home, I mean, which is to say, alone.

My stomach hurts.  My shoulders are killing me, and my elbows keep cracking, and I think I’m getting sick because my throat is getting swollen and achy and it kind of hurts to swallow.  I don’t have to work at all this long weekend, but I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to see Erik since he started working on Wednesday.  On Monday, his grandpa died from complications from a heart attack.  Thursday was the funeral.  I wanted to go, but I didn’t know him, and I didn’t want to intrude on his family or anything like that.

As for home… Like I said, I feel alone all the time there.  It’s as though my family is intentionally getting on my nerves to get me to move out or something.  Trying to push me out of the nest or some metaphorical shit like that.  I want to hit them most of the time, but I can’t because that could be a crime or something.  Anyways, more than anything, I just want my family to laugh at my stupid jokes, and to include me like they used to.  I spend all my time in my room when I’m home, unless no one else is in the house, because I feel so fucking excluded from everything.  And I try, I really do.  I try to laugh at their terrible, stupid jokes, and I try to listen to their mundane, boring stories about work and their friends and all of it, but I just can’t.  I want to cry all the time when I’m at home, and I hate the feeling of loneliness I get, even when my mom and aunt are both home, because they’re laughing at something and I’m not included, and I’m so fucking alone there that I think I might start screaming.

– a boy brushed red living in black and white – underoath –