Hey, I’m Rosie. If you’re reading this that’s cool.
I’m fourteen and spending my free time in Portland, Oregon.
It’s a beautiful city and the moment I graduate high school I’m leaving it behind.
I like to write stuff. If you ever wanna read it just ask.
I read a lot of books. Don’t ask me for favorites because I’m an indecisive loser.
I play soccer and will continue to do so until I’m old and crippled.
I have lots of best friends, but I only have a few real friends.
I’m pretty short and I don’t like being made fun of for it.
I hate stupid people.
As mean as I may sound, I’m really a softie. I just don’t like to share that side with people who don’t deserve to see it.
I love lots of things.
And here comes the paragraph full of deep meaning you were all waiting for…
I’ve been through a lot. My inner confidence used to be a 10, and now it’s a four. I don’t know how to improve my personality, because I’m too vain to see the faults. I hate at least one of my brothers, and kind of despise the other for abandoning me. I’m scared of my parents dying because they’re old and unhealthy. I pretend to be happy a lot of the time because I don’t know how to tell people I’m actually miserable without seeming like an attention whore. I’m not allowed to be mad at some of my friends because they take it too personally, so I have all this anger bottled up inside of me and I don’t know how or when it’ll come out. I feel inferior constantly. When I say I think I’m ugly, I’m not saying it because I want people to tell me I’m really beautiful on the inside and shit, I say it because to me it’s fact. I have moments where I wonder if I’d ever have the courage to commit suicide, then realize I don’t and never will. And that scares me because I’m worried that if or when things get really bad, I won’t have the guts to just put myself to sleep.
Because honestly, I’m just really, really tired.