Sarcasm
11:49 a.m.

It's so nice of you to not care about me at all.

I mean, I really like it when you go off and do the one thing I asked you not to do.

Am I that demanding? Becuase I really didn't think it was that big of a request.

Well, but sorry to ruin all your fun destroying yourself. Sorry to budge in and try to get you onto something better.

Sorry that I care.

I mean come on, who cares about what I feel anyways? I'm not really that usefull. I can't buy you a million things. I can't runa round and join in on your drunken fun. Well, I can, but I suppose the whole time you know that I'm sober and that just ruins everything for you.

Sorry I'm not happy all the time. It's a hard front to keep up, you know, and sometimes I remember that this is MY house and MY body and MY feelings and that I can feel safe and secure in them.

Apparently not, because lately I have to leave the house to escape you.

But that doesn't really matter. I don't really matter. I'm just that annoying person who lvies with you. It's not like I'm a real person. It's not like I deserve to be thought about every once in a while and cared for too.

It's not like I'm having a hard life lately or anything.

I mean, why should I feel bad? Obviously myself and my life is perfect.

And you don't need to keep any of my secrets. That's not your job. I must have told them to you for a reason, and therefore you should tell everyone else. It's not like they meant anything. Nothing important. Just, you know, my family and stupid things like that.

I'd just like to say again that I require no support or help whatsoever. I really enjoy having to work really hard to figure out why you're in a bad mood, or mad at me or crying in the bathroom. And it's really fun when you make me feel bad for not just knowing.

I mean, I just love how you treat me.

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