miss stina

Do I want to be perfect?
The living, breathing definition of perfect, in all aspects that I consider important, in all aspects that I aspire to be? Cultured, confident and wise? And happy?
Do I want to fucking live in some cutesy little city apartment with pot plants hanging off the balcony?
Do I want to work at some pretentious Chanel boutique or illustrious accounting firm to pay it off?

Yes. It's not something I think about everyday, but the feeling is there.
But what will happen? Fucked if I know. These things just aren't a part of me.

Tell me, how does a girl who does nothing, eventually get everything that she desires?
How can she look within for support when all she ever does is tear herself down?
And why the fuck does she stress about all of this, while she sits still, unwilling to make a change?

Where am I in my life right now? It's like my thoughts are tangled into one giant, grungy knot. The good is intertwined with the bad and I can't even extract one clear thought.

I make mistakes. I don't learn from them. I make them again, put it down to bad luck. Put it down to being me. But I still don't learn. I will never learn.

You can dismiss what I've said. You can tell me that I have all this anger, anger that comes from nowhere, bottled up inside me. And I'll agree with you. I will easily tell you that I love playing the victim. That it comes naturally to me, that I will do it because I was born to. I want to be a greater victim than I really am. Because I am attention-seeking. And selfish. And conceited. And foolish. And irresponsible. I will admit all this. Are you happy now? Because I think you should get fucked. I am not in self-denial any longer, but nor will I attempt to do anything about my problems. So get fucked.

Tell me it's just my hormones messing with me tonight.