I grew up with fairy tales. Listening to them being read to me, reading about them myself, watching movies about princesses and pirate ships.
I used to think that all a little girl would want is a prince charming, a knight in shining armour on his majestic steed riding into the sunset with her. Saving her from a lifetime of evil stepmothers and witches.
I used to want my very own prince charming. Someone to save me. From what? From reality, I guess. I wanted someone to give me my own fairy tale.
Then I grew up. Really grew up. And so the delusion has shattered into a million shiny little pieces. Like glass, glittering in the sand.
I realised I do not want a knight in shining armour after all. I do not need a knight in shining armour.
What I want, is a comrade in battle. Someone who will let me fight my own wars. Someone who will be there to back me up when I’m too overwhelmed.
It’s okay, for me to not have my own fairy tale. It’s okay, for me to not be a princess. It’s okay, as long as I have a fellow comrade by my side to slay dragons together.
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times.
I’m just about the most fucking insecure person you can ever meet. And I really don’t need anyone further undermining what little bit of self confidence I have.
I’m fucking aware of my own damn shortcomings, thank you very much.
Dealing with negativity exhausts me.
Dealing with people who always act like they know it all exhausts me.
Dealing with people who need constant reassurance exhausts me.
Dealing with people who always have some drama of some sorts exhausts me.
Basically, dealing with someone who is a lot like me exhausts me.
I don’t want or need this. I get plenty of this shit from myself, thank you very much.
Forcing myself to deal with someone like that will just means I’m burning myself out for no good reason.
I’m already feeling burnt. I don’t want anymore of this nonsense. There’s a reason why I like to be with people who aren’t Debbie Downers all the freaking time. I don’t have a huge reserve of positivity to dole out to every random Tom, Dick, or Harry. I’d rather just keep that tiny reserve for myself because I’m selfish like that.
If you expect a motivational coach in me 24/7, you’re gonna have a bad time.
I hate being late to important things. Especially if it isn’t my fault to begin with.
The feeling of helplessness and frustration kills me. Yet, here I am, unable to do a damn thing about it.
Seems to be a rather regular occurrence nowadays. Unfortunately.
Oh Murphy’s Law, why do you have to be such a bitch?
Leap off this perilous cliff?