Too forgetful for my own good. I should’ve known better that beautiful choice of words doesn’t come easy. Fuck.
For as long as I remember I never had much ambition in my life except getting lost in a faraway land, being able to drive a plane (which I still really want to achieve), or the biggest ambition that I am able to recall is, how I want to make everybody around me to be always happy with no exception for anybody. I want to die when at least I can be compared with Mother Teresa, or Gandhi, or Princess Diana, except that I’m always too shy so I don’t really want the world to mourn my death or anybody to remember me for centuries.
It was foolish.
Being too concerned with other people is still what I am, except when it gets too laborious and exhausting it hits me that I don’t have enough potential to reach my ambition. It makes me angry almost all the time because I realize regardless of my intention somebody will poison me to death or assassinate me at the end because no one, could ever, satisfy every single person at the same time.
What I want to achieve is not even good because it’s stupid, and it’s absurd, and it’s not a bit feasible, but I still can’t stop being angry because stop giving a fuck at everything is fucking difficult it hurts.
Are you sure?
In your face, lofty bitch.
I have too many things to say.
Rip my head open and read it loud I would not mind.
Maturity and adulthood should just fuck each other in the ass.
Whichever they choose oh for the love of God I don’t give a shit.