When something unfortunate happens to me, it seems to spurn some sort of avalanche of unfortunate events until I'm suffocating under a ton of misfortune and am feeling desperately sorry for myself. I've broken the washing machine and I have a million things to do. My ability to write lists and use them seems to have been made redundant by my own self-pity. I consistently wish I possessed the aptitude to make certain decisions, and didn't have to mix my words just to get something off my chest without actually saying what the problem is. My life is just a metaphor I can't create but will spend forever trying to describe.
I am so grateful for anyone that loves me for the way I am.
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