I warned you...

Squishy ahead.

I think Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half is better than all internet memes (which is sliced bread for cheesy-joke-inclined) ever. I am a couple of steps from creepy fangirl finding out what Allie's favourite food is and eating only that forever. Forever.

But this is mostly because her character (which is her) reminds me of me, which makes this weird, now that I think of it. Except I am not afraid of geese and my pets would qualify for animal MENSA. Also, I am not blonde and I do not wear pink.

Her book was delivered last week - the reason I am not posting this on my other, book blog is because of the squishy that is about to smack you in the face like an alien in Aliens.

The last chapter I read is 'Identity part I'. Have I mentioned reading her comics is like watching a mini-series of myself? She bravely describes her conviction that she is a horrible person, specifically 'selfish' and 'conceited'. My first reaction is to email her and her she is awesome and definitely not a horrible person, especially not in a society that lets children sleep on the street.

Except I've been thinking these kinds of things a lot lately. Not as much as I used to - more to figure out why I think I am so terrible, especially because if it were realistic, I would bring every child in tattered clothing home with me to be fed, sheltered and educated.

But I'm projecting. What I want is for me as a child to be taken care of and for the child still hiding in me to be let out. So I'm not really a good person; I'm a manipulative one.

I can also be really charming, when I have the energy, which is usually nervous energy and wilts quickly. Other activities to which nerves are directed are: chores, gardening, banging holes in the walls and then just using double-sided tape, or walking in circles around shopping malls, comparing prices and then not buying anything because I am a terrible, wasteful person.

Surely the fact that I am self-aware should give some street-cred to myself, right? Nope. Insular, melancholic, two-faced and just generally terrible.

When I was knee-height, I had already concluded that I was a terrible person, which meant I had done terrible things. But let's assume I did one really heinous thing. That was the only explanation for the fact that I felt unnoticed and sad, and that I was a tugboat and the world was the perfect storm. I had about five years between this conclusion and birth in which to look, but my memories were mostly pictures that didn't construct a helpful timeline.

Really, that's the end of what I wanted to say.

Although I know this on a conscious level, the rest (and most) of me is cautious. Just because I haven't found an event doesn't mean it doesn't exist (well, I have found an event but I'm not ready for that post) and logically, this makes the most sense. Why else is are things so terrible? And unfair? Mostly unfair. I am pissed that people around me blithely skip through life and I can't even get out the front door.

Just thinking that is terrible, right? How can I be angry because stuff happens? But I am. Enraged maybe. Definitely enraged.

Until a few years ago, I was religious and then spiritual. I faithfully prayed, lit candles, made deals with whoever was listening, prayed, hoped for a plane to fall out of the sky, fought, gave in, serenely acknowledged karma, fought the world and cried. Whoever this deity was, he or she had proclaimed that I was horrible, obstinate, stubborn, selfish and melancholic.

Which, I increasingly thought, was really mean. It is definitely unfair to hold me accountable for something I had allegedly done when I was still an amoeba in this perfect storm. That's tyrannical. Dictatorial. Unfeeling. And no the ends do not justify the means, because what I do know is that extremes are usually falsely imposed, and that a deity could surely think of Plans B to Z.

I also thought some other things, which shall never be posted.

I thought I was enraged? Now I was a baby star with the stamina of Alexander the Great and the ambition to be the largest star that can be without falling apart. This baby star is now a young adult, just waiting. Waiting for what?

See above argument. I jettisoned all deities along with meaning and truth. I replaced them with disappointment and resentment, which my melancholy proceeded to grow over like moss. I am genuinely a nihilist, but I am not happy with this answer. I need information. I need the truth. Objective truth. Not this subjective rubbish. My subject is sad, sometimes suicidal, afraid and just horrible. I need the answer to my question:

What the eff did I do before I could speak that could possibly result in this amount of awful?

Again, I have a theory, but not everyone is going to like it.

Until I have the truth, I must continue to assume the worst. So Allie, I get it. And you are awesome even if you don't believe it, because you made me laugh out loud into my coffee. If you happen to know what I did, please drop me a line, even as a comment on this post. You don't even have to make it funny.