No home.

I sit here, in this lively Starbucks, pondering the realization that I might be dead inside. I am astonished at the replaceable, irrelevant, cumbersome nature of myself that has apparently appeared due to the palpable nature of everyone else it seems. I am nothing but an inconvenient wind that seems to keep pulling up your towel when you’re trying to fix your spot on the warm beach sand. I am that unworldly arrogant fat woman that disturbs everyone’s dinner by yelling at the server or manager at that. Unsurprisingly, I have completely submitted myself to this burden of being the “b@#$!,” because every person who has lived with me or spent time with me more than a day will tell you that I am completely bothersome, or they might witness the uncanny pattern of “bad luck” in my life. One may ask what could possibly be so wrong with me or my situation. You see, I am a caring person. I care for people. I desire justice. I desire good. I want truth. I speak truth. I desire the best outcome. With these super illogical desires, I am bound for failure. This ecosystem, this place, this dead yet living thing is supposed to be the place of opportunity, of hope. Let nothing fool you, a dead tree bears no fruit. A place built on lies, injustice, manipulation, does not have the capacity to bring forth happiness, let alone a pleasant future. These people surrounding me here, on this December day are probably torn between the two lives we are told to live. Be nice, but do not be a push over, save money, but you just haaavveee to have the best, work hard, but make time for your family, eat this, don’t eat that, but it won’t matter because you can go to the gym. Like, all of this… all this misconstrued doctrine of modern America… is a lie. It is in-genuine. It is not my home. I have no home if I am here.