jennyeatsbabies.

At the end of the night when the computer is turned off and the headphones are put away, sometimes the pangs of night aren’t worth the trouble of such a terrible dignity.

I get angry too much and I try too hard—I’m shallow and superficial and competitive and obsessive and all of these things a girl should never be and somehow, somehow I always hate those who love me.

Maybe it’s because I expect too much—maybe it’s because I give too little and maybe it’s because I hate the way everyone always hurts me and I hate the way everyone always leaves.

I don’t understand how to be the girl everyone wants me to be: I don’t understand how to be coldhearted and how to be kind, and I’ve stopped understanding how to be me. I don’t understand how people can just leave your life and come back, and I don’t understand how to love and be loved—how to hate and how to be hated.

I’m childish and awkward and turning eighteen, and I can’t help but sometimes wish I was anyone else but me.

I play League for ten hours a day, and it’s frustrating how I can’t understand anything else but split-pushing and CS. Maybe it’s because I hate this: hate being hurt, hate being watched—hate fucking up.

Nobody thinks I can make it: can do it. I’m too sensitive, too softhearted and too tired—too scattered to focus, and maybe it’s this that makes me nervous, makes me unkind.