Not sure when the following was written

It’s so fucking exhausting, trying to put book theories into practice, being considerate of everyone at every turn, I really have no energy left
Nobody ever considers me. I’m so done with it, I really want to find someone to talk to, to tell them how awful I feel,
I’m really so lonely.
They all left me.
Especially her. She doesn’t care. She hasn’t changed a bit.
I don’t even know what the hell I’m crying about.
I envy them so much.
It’s really hard for me to fight the urge to go look for her.
She takes up too much of my memory. Why is it like this.
She doesn’t want me anymore.
I really feel like an abandoned child.
Why why why.
Why did he cancel the plans.
Why can plans never be executed on time.
Why am I so hesitant and overthinking.
Why can’t I find my own heart.

I want to be loved so badly. Loved in a concrete way. I crave love so much. I want to expose all my weaknesses so badly. I want to forget her so badly.
Sadly, no one will come.
Why do I want to forget her? Because she is purely draining me mentally. The good memories of the past hijack the present to tear me apart inside. Her changing is almost impossible. And that is just who she is. She isn’t wrong. I’m not wrong either. It’s nobody’s fault. Meeting itself was the mistake.
Therefore, I hope to forget her.
I wish I had never met her.
I wish that were so. Then I wouldn’t be crying my eyes out in the middle of the night, snot and tears everywhere, soaking a huge patch of my pillow with tears.
My mind is full of her, full of memories, and I can’t help regretting why I didn’t delete her earlier.
Night is when emotions collapse the easiest.

I keep trying to please myself, ordering the KFC I want to eat for myself, getting new bed curtains for myself, getting a new phone for myself, getting expensive headphones for myself, getting a new backpack for myself, getting a new mouse for myself, buying smooth-writing pens for myself.
I still can’t forget the sins ** committed against me.
Including, but not limited to, abandoning me since I was a child. I have no right to forgive her on behalf of my past self, absolutely none. Including, but not limited to… the terrifying face she left in my memory, the terrifying expression, the terrifying posture, the terrifying exterior.

I can still think of that day. What happened that day still affects my present. I am still very grateful to that teacher, who was probably the counselor for the Class of '22 in the School of Computer Science; I only remember his given name had two characters. I’m grateful to him for giving me the chance to cry my heart out completely. Before that and since then, I have never gotten another chance to cry so thoroughly, to have someone willing to accept my emotions. I wandered by the river for a long time that day; how lucky I was to meet him.

It’s as if the entire universe can’t see me.

I saw *** liking ***'s post again.
Damn it, I want to delete her, block her. So fucking annoying. What a dumbass. Is she sick in the head. She’s definitely a fucking dumbass.

The more I think about her, the more annoyed I get.
My heart is full of rage.
Full of rage.

I want her to completely disappear from my world.
It’s fine, it’s only been a little over a year of acquaintance, not that deep yet, not that deep yet, really not that deep.

She doesn’t deserve it.

Lately I’ve been constantly pondering whether or not to delete her.
The Sword of Damocles, hanging at my fingertips, swaying back and forth.
I don’t know how many times I’ve reached the final step, and recently I muted her notifications on WeChat too. Tearing myself apart like this every single night.

Above

It is now 1:40 AM on 2025.7.20, and I’m not sure when the above was written anymore.
In the middle of the night, I want to * again.
This is the first time this thought has approached me in so long.
Maybe it has to do with One Hundred Years of Solitude, which I’m currently reading. Reading about Rebeca hiding in the bathroom for hours sucking her thumb, fighting with all her might against the temptation to eat dirt, I just can’t overcome the temptation of eating ***.
I really want to ** one more time to see what * looks like, too bad I don’t wear a watch, even though I’m wearing long sleeves.
I really want ** to just stop right here. Originally I kept ** out of inertia, then suddenly that wall was broken, and thoughts of the possibility of ** stopping flooded my mind.
Desperate July.
The importance I place on honesty was very likely taught to me by Li Sao.
If so be my heart is truly fair and chaste, what matters it though I famish long with visage wan
Though none doth know me, let it be; so long as mine own soul be truly fragrant
More lief were I to perish suddenly and pass into oblivion, than brook to bear myself in such base guise
But the sorrowful and lonely emotions within it certainly infected me as well.
The falcon consorteth not with the common flock; even from ages past, 'twas ever thus
Now One Hundred Years of Solitude has ignited this loneliness even further.
Our positions—it’s too hard to find common ground. Even though her position is easy to see through, how could I possibly accommodate both at the same time.

I would willingly wait for him to come before me with a trembling heart, in a bathroom filled with scorpions and carpeted with fallen leaves and yellow butterflies.

To think this was already back in '22, huh.

She is probably Rebeca. I like her very much. At least I can truly feel Rebeca’s loneliness. What’s the difference between being sent to live with grandparents since childhood and being sent to adoptive parents? Biological parents might as well be dead.

Suddenly remembered that I tried reading The Courage to Be Disliked before too. Too positive, too absolute, too hard to achieve. Back then I probably only read the first part before a wave of nausea hit me and I put it down for good.

It is truly disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.

Let’s keep writing down some memories; they suddenly surged into my mind, and I have to keep from forgetting them.

An interesting phrasing: the “Cult of **”.

The waves on Twitter have shifted so many times; as someone from three or four dynasties ago in the Chinese Twitter sphere, I really can’t find any companions in time anymore. There are only a tiny few with whom I exchanged other contact info back then, maintaining a connection as thin as a gossamer thread.

After the pandemic, it feels like all vitality is gone, and everything has changed.

I miss it.

I remember Jingjing also mentioned her thoughts on our high school days, haha. Us, ah, we have already boarded the ship of time; on the sea of university, the other shore of high school grows further and further away, further and further away, inevitably and sorrowfully leaving us behind.

The **** in high school also had an impact; thankful the school didn’t force me to take a medical leave. ** looked very haggard, but she deserved it; if not for her, none of this would have happened.

I don’t even know if it’s **.

Sadly, there’s no one to tell these things to, no one can be my therapist, no one is willing to understand me, because I’m not willing to understand others either. Putting yourself in someone else’s shoes is really hard. Really hard.

Especially for an exhausted me—I can barely take care of myself, where would I get the energy to maintain interpersonal relationships? Fuck, I want to *.

Fuck, I want to *.

Let’s bring the topic back to ***.

I don’t know why I keep thinking of her either, and I have no idea what I even need. I really, really, really want to forget her completely, because there is no possibility between us.

Fuck, why haven’t I deleted her yet?

It’s really so pointless!

Can’t let go, really can’t let go, really, really can’t let go.

Yeah, *** is still following ***.
Want to **.

Actually, what difference does it make whether I delete her or not, to her.

It’s just that I can’t get past my own kindness, my own conscience.

I need to make myself feel better.

It’s my fault, it’s all my fault.

That’s how it is, that’s just how it is.

I recall the day my leave of absence ended and I returned to school.
That day was even decided by drawing lots. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha, drawing lots to decide which experimental class I’d go to, hahahahahahaha, that was truly a lot that decided my fate.

I recall the New Year’s Gala.
I recall her grades.
I recall that day, a certain day returning to school, I hid and hid and hid in the bathroom. And then ***** wanted to look for me, truly disgusting.
I love the privacy of the bathroom, god, what a perfect world, even safer than my own room: I recall again **'s promise back then, the promise to middle-school me that she wouldn’t set half a foot into my room. In practice, that was of course impossible. All just to get me to move into the new house.
Very nice, the new house.

Grandpa and Grandma treated me very well; their emotions were always very stable.

**'s emotional instability is still my nightmare to this day.
Causing me to never dare believe in her love for me, terrified of whether there will be a day it ends. Just like certain days in the past.

I recall again that glass table in the living room, that blue bed in the bedroom, that wall scroll, god that wall scroll, the faded wall scroll of Elaina. I want to hang something up too.

And I remembered how she forced me to swim! Fuck PE, fuck PE. It’s just 40 points on the high school entrance exam, what’s the big deal? No matter how well I scored, I couldn’t test out of the county high school, and no matter how badly I bombed, I’d still get into the county high school. So why couldn’t I be allowed to give up on PE? What gives you the right to make decisions for me? What gives you the right to arbitrarily decide for me? Even though I made myself clear, this is disrespecting me.

You don’t care about me at all.

Who cares, who cares, who cares. Just like I don’t care about others, who cares about me. If even my parents don’t care.

I’m afraid I have to write this down again: the childhood me, the eighth-grade me, regarding my father’s passing, truly did not feel immense, or even slightly large, grief.

Yes, even now I don’t feel it. He of course left good impressions on me, but the bad impressions are往往 remembered much more deeply.

I want to cry. I want to cry. Cry for my non-existent companions. Cry for my past love. The only, past, beautiful, memory.

Those on the inside are blind, those on the inside are blind.

Why can’t we choose our own **.

Any music at any volume is just too noisy, ah.

No one will come.

If only there were a self-service *** device, the only trouble would be for the person cleaning up my **, if only I could truly ** nothing at all.

Nothing could be worse than right now.

It is now 2025/7/23 20:59:21

Don’t know what I want to write.

Why is this so negative my god (

Anyway, venting through words is still pretty good.

Lmao, no one’s gonna read this.

By the way, to avoid being overly negative, and to avoid lowering the social evaluation of certain specific people, I used “*” to replace some words in the original text.

Then when asking ai, I realized I didn’t censor enough, so I ended up censoring more and more (

Grandpa’s words suddenly flew back to me from my memories, when he told me on the phone to be happy. God, I don’t know why that feels so warm.

Hahaha and at the college send-off banquet, he probably realized I only invited one classmate and she was a girl, so afterward he even asked her if she was my girlfriend hahaha, and seeing me not answer, he said I’m old enough to date now. All I can say is I did indeed like her once, oh, too bad, too bad time didn’t wait for me.