Inching the door closed

It's inevitable, I know. Growing up, shutting the door to your childhood bedroom one last time. I've been stewing in these thoughts for years, since maybe fourteen, even thirteen? And it hasn't gotten any better - unless you count outright sadness converting into dull nothingness and vague apprehension as an improvement. 

See, my birthday is in four days. And it should be one of those big parties, everyone I know invited regardless of whether or not they like me. Large likelihood of someone getting alcohol poisoning. But it's not. My four total friends (who I love and are dear to me) aren't going to be there, save for one. There's a school trip, that should be fun. Yeah right. At risk of sounding like all edgelord-y, anything I do has the fun drained out of it. I dunno if it's my voice, my face, my awkward way of carrying myself. The point is, it won't be enjoyable for me long-term or anyone else.

I'd been hoping to hold onto all this and keep it all to myself - a horrible kind of satisfaction in feeling all the good parts of me eaten up. And then everyone found out. Oh well. So what do I lose by sharing this with the internet? I've always been an attention-seeking brat. I've ruined everything at home, and school doesn't interest me anymore. Fuck your gifted child. She's too tired to hold her head up, let alone study for the world's worst biology teacher.

It's my last birthday, last Christmas before I magically become a responsible adult who has everything figured out. that's a funny joke.

I don't even know where I want to go to college, if I'm even smart enough to get into one. Who am I kidding? I'm definitely not. Former golden child, who used to effortlessly get 98% by glancing over a textbook before a test. The grades have gone down the drain, like my sleep and teenage years.