Final Post

Over the past two weeks, I've written quite a few blogs. They started out trying to b e about faces and how people (and myself) act around others. It worked for a few entries, and I tried to keep it consistant, but I failed. Whether is was because of sleep deprivation, pure laziness, or even just a sucky topic, I'm not sure. But I do know that I failed at being consistant.
I don't really like the internet, and I have a personal hatred for blogs and any kind of online communities. If I wanted to write about myself so that others can read it and critique me, then I would write an autobiography. But that's not what I write about. I hate writing about, talking about, thinking about myself. I would actually rather not. If I have to have anything at all to do with myself, I think it to myself so that no one else would have to read it. My life is my own, and it's not something that can just be read from pages or a computer screen.
It's all the same old sob story.
"My mom and dad are divorced. I had a bad childhood. I struggled with depression. I've been tempted to do some bad things."
Boo hoo. Welcome to the life of the American teenager.
This may just be my personal opinion. Maybe some of you enjoy this so that other people can give you advice to help you through some of your troubles that you're struggling with now.
But in my case, I have no troubles. I see no point in having troubles. I live at home with my mom and grandma in a nice duplex, which is amazing because men are gross and it's just us girls. Through the divorce, my dad has been paying for our mortgage, my child-support, and he buys me things every time I see him. We've become closer because of his guilt, and whoever says that money can't buy happiness was seriously disturbed. Me and my dad get to spend our quality time together when we go out in public, shopping. Anything he buys me is magnificent, and it makes me so happy. And when I'm happy, he's happy. And when he's happy, I've even happier.
Because of my failed childhood, I learned at an early age what not to do. I learned right from wrong. I learned how other people act and think and feel, and I learned how to manipulate or nurture those traits. I learned how to rise above others and strongly be myself. And my lessons in life like that only fully sunk in last year. It has shaped me into a better person, and I'm happy with who I am, how I look, what I sound like, and how I live.
And just because of all this, that doesn't mean that I want to waste my time typing it out in a depressing little white box on a computer screen, when my real friends are calling and texting me non-stop for help. I give out so much help, support, advice, that I'm sick of writing it, saying it, thinking about it. I don't have patience, I can't understand why people let things get to them [i.e. stereotypes, insults, relationship troubles], and I am not the person to go to if you're only looking for pity. I do not pity the idiotic.
So, as this is my final [hopefully final final] blog entry, I will say this. It has been great. I love ranting about other people and all that good gossiping junk {oh the sarcasm!], but after I leave this academy, I will probably delete or forget about my blog account. I will keep my facebook because my friends are making me, but I will not check it everyday. I hate computers, the internet, and people in general. I will be a hermit when I grow up.
In short, I am not an autobiographer.
Thank you, and have a nice day.