I’ve Been Moody.

If it hasn’t become terribly obvious, everything I do is extremely calculated. Perhaps the equation isn’t always right but the thought is always there. Lots and lots of thinking goes into every movement, decision, glance, word. Each individual key stroke, the witty banter, the way I sit so my legs are equal parts away from the people on either side of me, the way I don’t make eye contact or the way I choose to, how I will wait until everyone is done speaking to add in the smallest of comments, how I carry myself, the way I may hold my breath, what to do every second of the day, so on and so forth- all of what I do is churned through some mind gears repeatedly until everything I do is premeditated or on the verge of phony. Rehearse something a billion times in your head and eventually even you start to wonder if you feel the sincerity.

For what it’s worth, I mean the things I say, I mean the things I do, and I mean the things I feel. Maybe not forever but for a long while at the very least. I try so terribly hard to not only appear convincing through my worrying, but also sincere through my convincing because its not that I need to be convincing- I should already appear as much because I am- but if someone ever called me out on not being so, I would be hurt. For whatever reason when people accuse me of not caring it crushes me. Yeah, its a goddamn tangle of bullshit that seems absolutely irrational but if I could get it all under control and just be comfortable around everyone, if I could just exist among everyone without feeling the pressure to make them not only satisfied but truly happy, I would most definitely choose that option.

I don’t know if that’s part of what people call anxiety. I don’t have any idea what you would call it. I’m curious because there’s not a whole lot of anything else I love more than picking the stupid brain inside my cranium apart until I’m left with mush and a self diagnosis that I keep to myself. A lot of people seem to think the main reason I don’t share my short comings or mistakes is because I’m too proud but it’s hardly the case. I’m terrified. I don’t like admitting to the bad things Ive done, its true. They humanize me sure, I think a lot of people would be able to relate and forgive- but I also think there are a lot of people that enjoy running their mouths. And I guess you can thank them for not getting some really interesting stories out of me.

There are some people that have gotten close enough. No one gets them all. They all have specific ones chosen for them. Because as I said, everything I do is fucking planned and hokey like a fucking uncomfortable late 80s, cheesy, comedic, teen, after school special, something or other. I can’t believe this is my fucking head. Some days man…

Have you ever drank so much coffee that you become a paranoid schizophrenic? Yeah, neither have we… I’m joking. I just don’t sleep and see things in my peripherals that aren’t truly there. I’ve never been diagnosed and I never will be. Pay for health insurance that I don’t bother to use. I have dreams where teeth grow in through the middle of the roof of my mouth. Or they rot and fall out. Or they shift until they all need to be ripped from my sensitive gums. From their roots. My whole mouth weeping in pain. I think my wisdom teeth are coming in.

My irrational fears are always grotesque. I’m a mess. Schroedinger’s dumb little sister who is the picture of health or a decrepit old hag if you never open the box, never bring her to a physician. Without a professional opinion I can be both while also being neither. Everyones dying to figure out what’s wrong with them. I’m just hoping to die before I do. Call me a positive Percy, an oblivious Oliver, ignorant Ingrid, either way to me it’s just another thing you’ll call me. Like Libra, female, Caucasian, Irish, they’re all just noises you make with your mouth.

“What’s in a name anyway?”

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