Twenty-seven
I’m twenty-seven years old. Living in Puerto Rico, I study and am looking to get a steady job. Most people my age have kids, degrees, house, you know, the works.
At times, I sit at home and think of what a shitty person I am. After two failed relationships (each of five years) I’m ready to just give up.
I don’t want kids and, after thirty, people don’t pay attention to women.
I don’t have a degree and I’ve been engaged twice but the men get cold feet. I get it.
I’m moody, prone to rage, mostly.
I don’t sleep. I twist and turn and look at pictures on Instagram.
I don’t have a heart. My grandmother died and I haven’t shed any tears. Well, a few, but I haven’t mourned.
I really have no clue what I’m going to do with my life. All I know, is I want to write. At times, I like to believe I have some talent for it. I really do.
In reality though, I don’t think I’m anything special.
Hell, if someone were to shoot me right now it’d make me the happiest person ever.
I’m tired of being watched over. I’m tired of people saying they’ll stay and then have them run away.
I’m tired. Exhausted.
In fact, I’d do anything to switch places with my grandmother and I mean it.
See, people tend to tell me “you’re young, you have so much going for you!”
I try not to laugh. Instead, I want to scream: “ARE YOU BLIND?”
Let’s recap: twenty-seven, diabetic, no degree, no car, no job, and I seem to scare people.
All this brings me to the fact that my birthday is coming up. It’s in October and I’d rather die before then than have anyone take any pictures of me or even say “Happy Birthday” to me ever again.
My birthday is another reminder of my failure. Another reminder of how much I hate being here that, besides my writing, I don’t have much.
I like to tell my mom I have dreams. I like to tell my friends I love them and I do.
The truth is though, I’m just floating around to see when I will get the chance to leave.
I’m not selfish. I love my mother, my sister, my small group of friends.
I avoid taking pictures with them so when I’m gone they can forget me quickly. So there won’t be any reminders around.
I love them.
I just don’t love myself.
