1 Prologue:

"Sometimes, when I look into the mirror I feel emptiness overtake me. As though, If I look into my own eyes long enough, I'll be consumed by them, by the blackness that seems so unthreatening; surrounded by the subtle hazel browns that surround. Yet, it pulls me in. I stare into my own eyes searching for something that I can't explain with words. Perhaps, I'm searching for myself, that's locked behind these windows like cages. Some even say they show through to the soul. Odd isn't it?

Well, I don't see a soul, or a light. I see darkness, then I turn away, no longer wanting to feel the turning I have that lays in the pit of my stomach, that crawls up my throat threatening to bring bile up with it. The person looking back at me, scares me. I don't want to be the person in the mirror anymore. Yet, this person follows me, with every refection in the store windows I walk by, and puddles of water I set my feet into. I cannot escaped her, she clings to me as tight as skin. She's suffocating me, making the air feel thick and my lungs burn. She causes my attacks of fear and fire in my throat, that burns the soul that I do not have.

She is me, and I hate her.

Yet, with all that said, there is really nothing I can do about that. Well, other than therapy. But been there, done that, kind of over it.. I must seem over dramatic with all of the poetically depressing words that I have sprawled over this page, with seemingly annoying edginess that I generally wallow in. I guess, you could say I'm a mess. Hell, I am a mess.

I wonder sometimes about how my 12 year old self would look at me now. Honestly, I think they would be impressed I've gotten this far. I'm still impressed. Didn't know I had it in me to live past fifteen, let alone to twenty-three. On the other hand, I feel like they would be deeply disturbed about how outwardly generic I've become. I think the kids now a days would call me a "normie"? Look at me knowing the new lingo and stuff!

Wow, that got cringy fast. Well, After a few paragraphs about my mental state, I guess I should introduce myself?

Hello, My names Willow Stanley. I'm an overly depressing 23 year old, who feels more like a 90 year old man with a drinking problem that chain-smokes. I work an equally boring and depressing job as a personal assistant to a person I'd rather stab on a daily basis than breath the same air as.

But, as society would have it, I like money. There for, I am fated to have a shitty job. I could always try to better myself and try to go back to collage or do a job I actually like (which is an adult's delusional idea equivalent to make believe), But that's way too much work to put into a life I could quite literally not give two shits about. I'm constipated just thinking about it.

Now, dear people reading this, I'm sure you're wondering, "Then why the hell are you writing about your boring, depressing quarter life crisis?" I'm super glad you asked, probably averagely boring person as well. The truth is, I don't have a single damn clue. In fact, this may just be my way of avoid a mental break down.

So, yeah. People love watching other's breakdowns. If not, why do so many people subscribe to drama shows about "Spilling the Tea" or why magazines still slap headlines on the their cover that says "Pitt leaves Angie for the last time!" And I still have to hear about it from my 86 year old grandma on our weekly calls?

It's because people secretly want to know the flaws of others so they constantly get confirmation about how great they are in comparisons to those people. Listening to good old grandma Jean, got me thinking. If a company can talk shit about people for cold hard cash, Why can't I?

Okay, okay. Before you start to grab the pitchforks and torches and try to roast me alive, hear me out.

Companies are already taking advantage of others for personal gain. So, why not talk about my many fuck ups, and get some of that sweet sweet cash for myself. That way, I don't have to listen to my obnoxious boss speak. Let alone breath for one beautiful day and get payed for sitting in my week old underwear talking about how much of a fuck up I am. Logically, wouldn't you do the same? Plus, to top it off, I'm talking about myself, no one else. So, in a way I'm truly very "brave." At least, that's how the media paints anyone who is self deprecative, before anyone calls them out on it, first.

I'm truly an inspiration.

Oh, and before you go off thinking wow this woman is so "revolutionary," like truly. she's writing a book long monolog about how jacked up the media and society is. well, you're wrong there too. Honestly, I find nothing wrong with exploiting others for money, because if I did, I'd actually have to fix it or at the very least have a solution for it. I thought going to collage was too much work.

Hell, even thinking about how I'm going to have to organize and proof-read this mess already sounds like way too much work. You really think I'd put that much effort into trying to fix something about the way that society works? There are people like Rosa Parks that can do a much better job than I, so let's keep that SJW shit up to people like her.

So, Now that I drilled that into your head, the truth is that all I want is a way to entertain a few people and get money. Bottom line."

I finished this long winded rant on my darkly colored blog my therapist had suggested I start as a way to relieve some of the pent up rage that she assumes, I've been harboring. You know what they say about assumptions.. It didn't help, but I think I could make a quick buck off of this whole tormented soul shit, people eat that stuff up, just look at how much serial killer tv shows make. I think a lot of other mindless people would either totally get it, or be offended enough to share it. (which is how most things get viewed now a days. And if the internet has taught me anything, it's that views = money.)

I looked down at my ketch up stained white wife beater and men's plaid boxers, and sighed. This is a really good representation of who I am on the inside, if I do say so myself, at least I'm being myself, kind of. If my true self is my father…

I checked the time, on the clock that was flashing the numbers 3:10 am at me in bold red numbers, that was the only light source other than the glare from my computer. It lit up my grungy room, hiding most of the trash I didn't care to look at in the dim lighting. I closed, my sticker covered computer, which I do admit looks like it's owned my an emo 15 year old going through a stage. I set it beside me on the greenish yellow that I'm pretty sure was once fully green, but time and nicotine has taken its toll. I looked up at the once white, now also yellowing ceiling, that I also hated.

Then proceeded to pass out on the couch, with my pillow covering my face, praying to something (anything) that it may accidentally suffocate me in my sleep.

One could only hope so much…

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