Grrrrr
What did I do? I don't know. In fact I did nothing at all. Yes, I've done many things, but not right now.
Yeah, I'm a paranoid and my head is in a whirl, you know.
I'm angry because I can't understand.
I'm also angry with myself because I can't find a way to move on.
Besides, people are angry because I've become permanently hostile.
Yeah, I closed the doors because I'm stupidly blind. Big mistake.
--Note: mere coincidence, as I'm writing this doors thing, I've just received a notification... Damn, this is not a competition, if she wants to eat the man alive it's fine, I don't care. This has made me even angrier. Hahaha, no, it's not possible, this trashy woman is filling my facebook with brutish words.
--Another note: I'm about to start a written quarrel. I'll be back to the post in a minute... I'm going to destroy somebody.
--I guess she's drugged or something, her vulgarity arouses pity. I never thought I'd have to delete someone's comments or publications (or even block a facebook contact), but this is coarse; this woman doesn't know the meaning of education. She has no style. By the way, I won the quarrel with a clear, indisputable statement.
Well, this strange episode doesn't mean I'm wrong when I say closing doors was a mistake. Well, in fact, I will never know. It's the Selfishfly Effect.
Te case is that I'm angry... Someone told me the right sensation is uncertainty mixed with stress :(
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*I miss my granddad. You know, he taught me how to read and write, so when I was 4 years old I could accompany my drawings with lovely messages for mum. He used to play the harmonica, above all when there was a power cut, and then he would make up games with the light of the candles and make silhouettes on the wall with his hands. He was a a conservative gentleman, a wonderful baker, an avid reader, and a music lover. I guess he would be proud of Citripiox and me. Everybody thinks I've never cared, but that's not true. It's just that I keep that feeling for me; I don't want to stain my memories sharing them with relatives who believe that crying for five minutes (at most) makes your sorrow truer and deeper. If they hate knowing that we were his most cherished kids, that's their problem, not mine.
Yeah, I'm a paranoid and my head is in a whirl, you know.
I'm angry because I can't understand.
I'm also angry with myself because I can't find a way to move on.
Besides, people are angry because I've become permanently hostile.
Yeah, I closed the doors because I'm stupidly blind. Big mistake.
--Note: mere coincidence, as I'm writing this doors thing, I've just received a notification... Damn, this is not a competition, if she wants to eat the man alive it's fine, I don't care. This has made me even angrier. Hahaha, no, it's not possible, this trashy woman is filling my facebook with brutish words.
--Another note: I'm about to start a written quarrel. I'll be back to the post in a minute... I'm going to destroy somebody.
--I guess she's drugged or something, her vulgarity arouses pity. I never thought I'd have to delete someone's comments or publications (or even block a facebook contact), but this is coarse; this woman doesn't know the meaning of education. She has no style. By the way, I won the quarrel with a clear, indisputable statement.
Well, this strange episode doesn't mean I'm wrong when I say closing doors was a mistake. Well, in fact, I will never know. It's the Selfishfly Effect.
Te case is that I'm angry... Someone told me the right sensation is uncertainty mixed with stress :(
-------------------------
*I miss my granddad. You know, he taught me how to read and write, so when I was 4 years old I could accompany my drawings with lovely messages for mum. He used to play the harmonica, above all when there was a power cut, and then he would make up games with the light of the candles and make silhouettes on the wall with his hands. He was a a conservative gentleman, a wonderful baker, an avid reader, and a music lover. I guess he would be proud of Citripiox and me. Everybody thinks I've never cared, but that's not true. It's just that I keep that feeling for me; I don't want to stain my memories sharing them with relatives who believe that crying for five minutes (at most) makes your sorrow truer and deeper. If they hate knowing that we were his most cherished kids, that's their problem, not mine.
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