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2004-04-13 @ 2:27 p.m.
what neurotics are really thinking when they're sitting quietly

Ever have anyone put you on their favorite's list and you immediately feel pressure to please them, like gee, I wonder what they like, and I hope that I don't bore them, and maybe I shouldn't talk about my mother so much, and maybe I should read all 157 of their entries so I can understand them better, and maybe I should bake them some brownies and UPS them over, if only I knew where they lived, but then it might seem like I'm weird and that I was a stalker and if they thought that they would probably drop me from their favorite's list and then I would feel really rejected, and would probably drive down to the Dollar Store and load up on 5 or 6 bags of cookies and eat myself into a sugar coma, realizing that my whole self worth is tied up in what other people think of me, and then I would want to discuss it with my shrink who is on vacation in Disneyworld, which, as we all know, is a HAPPY PLACE, i.e., the antidote to listening to sad and depressed people all year long, but in reality I should feel happy since somebody actually thought enough of me to put me on their favorites list, because that shows that they like me...they really like me, because, wow, I must be somewhat worthwhile, even though I don't think so, but they must know something I don't know, because dammit, they must be right, because, after all, I am great at writing incredibly long, self indulgent sentences that make absolutely no sense, but, of course, if I type something like that, the new person might think I'm really egotistical and immediately take me off their favorite's list and then I would feel really rejected again and have to make a few more dozen trips to the Dollar Store for another 50 bags of cookies, and then eventually I would get so fat that Maury Povich would have to do a show about me, because I could no longer leave my house because the doorframe isn't wide enough, because I ate so many cookies because I felt rejected that somebody took me off their favorite's list, but then I would feel good again because someone was paying attention to me (thanks Maury), but then the film crew would leave after filming my segment and I would feel bad again, and then someone might possibly add me to their favorite's list again when I wrote about my exciting Maury experience and then I would feel good again, and then three people might drop off my favorites list because I say masturbate too much and then I would feel utterly rejected again, and then one day, if I was incredibly lucky a plane would inexplicably crash into my house and a handsome firefighter would come and save my life and we would fall madly in love and then you know what?

A fucking favorite's list just wouldn't matter any more.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty