I am extremely annoyed at myself.
Why would I hesitate in meeting new people?
Many reasons actually.
Even now, I can't push away my insecurities.
I want to vomit at the thought of how attention seeking I am, like even now, how I expect people to care about what I think, but having no intention of telling them what is on my mind.
How I expect people to come to me, ask me how my day was, only to reject them of conversation.
I want them to come to me, tell me how much they love and appreciate me only to have the satisfaction of knowing myself that they could never get me.

Want, Have, Discard.

I hate suggesting or initiating things, it's a sense of losing control. Mind games, power play, everytime I let myself initiate something, I lose. I lose the game. I lose control over the person. I let my own feelings show. I am shamelessly selfish.

"This is your life, and it's ending, one minute at a time."

What would it be like to not exist? If every component was perfect? Would it feel too strange because we have been used to life's little cruelties? Perfection is a cruelty in itself.
I am fultilling my introspection quota of the month.
This is not a cry for attention.

Crying feels shameful, but I know that I should cry. It wouldn't solve anything, but it would make the constriction in my chest a little less tighter. I've been floating all my life. I've never felt insecure in the environment my parents have created for me to grow up in. Instead, floating without purpose from day to day.
"This is your life, and it's ending, one minute at a time."
I say to myself, "right now, at this period in time, you will never feel as good, you will never look as good, the world should beam down upon you."
And yet this should be the best time of my life. If this is the best it can get, what do I have to look forward to again?

I am seeing the future, like a russian doll, one outside the other.
I am in the center, I am the innermost doll, a part of something bigger, generations more to come.

Self-deprecation again.
Somehow, ignoring the lack of ambition and not having a "dream" fuels my apathy. It is like a period pain, a dull ache inside. My dream is to live a "happy life". But will I ever be happy? Happy is a stupid word. It is vague and holds no real substance. So is contentment. These definitions are like a circle inside a square, the circle will never fill the square.
I am content. I am happy.
Not all the time.

I will never like my job. Perhaps not even my future full time one.  I am settling though.
Sometimes, I don't receive anything in return. Not even a polite stretching of veil coloured lips. Fair enough.
It is my job to do this, not theirs.
It is my job to smile and be an "important asset to the company", but really it's all a bunch of shit.
We do it for the money.
I will smile for this.
The way they look at me makes me squirm. I feel like a piece of meat, ready to be pealed from and devoured off the bone. Like drinking oil, I feel slimy.

Will they still like the present, the plain present without the fancy gift wrapping outside?
That's all I am, as plain as I am without the clothes, jewelry and makeup.

I have formally ditched Xanga for its weblog counterpart.

Might visit now and again, but, no promises.