Whelp, I Quit My Job Yesterday

Whelp, I quit my job yesterday

Ya wanna kno how I know there's no god? Cause if there was a kind and loving god in this wretched universe, I wouldn't be getting gender envy from fucking Russell fucking Crowe

It used to bother me that I can't connect to people. I'd see people just walking up to others and just chatting away, or someone being able to talk about something without being asked a direct question. I've tried, and I don't know why I can't. I can't pretend like that. Why doesn't my face move like that? Why doesn't my voice vary like that? Why does it feel like I have to perform an emotion for people to notice I'm having one? Why do I have to mimic others to express myself? Why don't people notice when I express myself in the way that comes naturally to me?

I keeping waiting for that one button on his vest to go. I want it to pop off completly. I want to hear it snap and bounce off his knee. I want to see his face as he feels it free it self, and I want to see him fluster and blush as it skitters away. I see it straining, threating to go as he twists and breathes and slouches and bounces, but it never does. What beautiful torture.

So touch starved atm that having a pt's arm resting on my knee for a 90 minute transfer so he wouldn't fuck up his IV is the most intimacy I've felt in months

I find I use this blog as a sort of therapy. I've never been able to be open to people. Even anonymously on the internet I tend to clam up, be cagey, or start to perform for others an exaggeration of myself. This blog I think is sort of my latest attempt to see how honest I can be. How intimate my thoughts can be. How much I can allow myself to say. So far, I've said more on here than I've ever said to anyone ever. Most of it is weird, gross, offputting, random, and a little disturbing, but that's ok. I'm writing for me. All these disjointed snippets by no means reflect the person I am as a whole, but they each of them have their own place in the time they were written and the ever shifting person they were written by. Nightmares, dreams, stresses, anxieties, joys, wants, observations, life events, and moods. All are strange and uncomfortable. I'm trying to be ok with that.