When I Was Older

I didn’t talk about what I planned to talk about last night.

I’m a loving person. I’m an understanding person. But I live by the motto, “Nobody is coming to save you.” And I trust God might. He’s God. And I hope to be loved by at least a (literal) few humans… That’s all.

I’m not a pessimist. But at heart I’m probably not an optimist either. I’m not a cynic. I’m just…trying my best and looking forward to Heaven. Because I see how ugly this world really is…even while it’s also extraordinarily beautiful at times as well. I’m a brutal realist, maybe.

And I tend to assume the worst and then quickly let go of it. I love moving on. Fast forward faster…

“Hold up!”

When I first started having problems with covert bullies on Instagram…it rested on one thing. Their utter certainty that I was aware of all of my advantages and blessings and was running around arrogant and egotistically high as a kite on them. But in reality…I hear nothing. I just am myself…and that’s all. If everyone was as beautiful or richer I wouldn’t care. As long as they were kind. …I. Hear. None. Of. It.

I don’t live in my own little delusional world. I observe. I ponder. I silently feel life and then I write about it. I get caught up in everyone else’s journey and unless someone stops me I tend to live internally cloistered. Safe and sound. I was an only child. It’s extraordinarily easy… I don’t dissociate. *laugh* I just have my heart in an airtight safe. Deal with it…if you even truly care anyway.

I love F. Scott Fitzgerald’s approach to love. If there ever was a human who could have translated my soul it was probably him. He was good at that sort of thing with probably most people…but I think with me it would have been from personal experience.

No. I’m Zelda. I’ve never been Zelda. I’m not JFK either. *eye-roll*

And the problem is…when I wear Chanel No. 5 parfum it doesn’t smell like I’m an old lady. And I wear it to go for hikes. Because I don’t give a damn. Byotch. It’s just perfume. It’s not risqué.


Isn’t it? Isn’t it just a bloody perfume?

I don’t celebrate victories. Until God sends Satan into a lake of fire for eternity I’m not sure on a personal level if I’m happy enough to celebrate any personal “victories.”

And that sounds lovely. *laugh* But…while I’m snubbing my nose at the offer of temporary faux bliss…before eternal Hell…I wonder. What am I missing?

The thing is…I suppose it’s possible I could hurt men. And yet I don’t do things most women do to hurt them. So it’s easy to miss it. And I do miss it. And people are too brainwashed and controlled in their trained automatic-rewards-for-narcissism to “call me out.” Because “calling me out” would require telling me how blessed I am while acknowledging that I might not have almost any ego. I mean I might…but I also might not. Sorry. And no…I’m not “just autistic.” *eye-roll* No, I’ve had to painfully figure it out for myself (possibly with the help of actual ghosts) while realizing how unloved I actually am. It’s been great!

And that’s my evil. Or rather, my accidental evil. Possibly. People are so cruel and guarded and narcissistic with me and have been my entire life…that I don’t realize how much people might actually want to be close to me. At all.

And I’m sure for some dead male ghosts it might be unpleasant. Should they be actual ghosts.

Happy Fourth of July.