I’ve had bags under my eyes since May.

I confessed all my feelings to Lindsey last night and have come to realize tonight that none of them matter.

I think, and none of this matters anyway, that I like her because she makes me feel important, and she makes me feel sexy, and vice-versa (to the last, I mean I don’t think I make her feel important).

I think she likes me because I’m “cute” and she wants to help me, how admirable that is.

But

It’s all bullshit

I don’t know how to make myself feel good. I don’t know how to get myself away from this. I don’t know how to let myself cry anymore.

And I don’t wanna make any friends I don’t want (that’s another story entirely, don’t be so confused).

I realize I need more sleep. But I don’t do anything about it. I realize that I don’t know anything, or not as much as I think, and I’m not always on top of things, I don’t see things, and you’re wrong also, but it hurts me, and we probably won’t be friends again (this paragraph relates to Dave) and that’s okay. It’ll always be my fault.

I’ll make it, no — Where?

I’d wanna sleep for a week and not do a thing, not talk to a friend, or my parents, no appointments, but I’ve always only talked about that, and fuck — I get lonely after a few hours, who the fuck am I kidding?

Not me; anymore?

I should have started college. I’m an impatient, jewish-looking prick. A girl likes me because I need help and she finds jewish-looking people cute, apparently.

And no one else seems to care.

But that doesn’t even matter, either. At least you’re reading.