Rewind.

I don't have any empirical evidence (sorry, it's the psychology effect) to support this, but I think it's a pretty reasonable assumption that at one point or another, everyone must become pretty damn sick of themselves.

I mean, logically, how could this keep itself from happening? How could people completely refrain from growing disarmingly, incredibly sick of themselves after a while? Do you know what we're talking about here?

Tenty-four hours a day.
Seven days a week.
We are literally FORCED to spend this time with ourselves. Sleeping, eating, talking, fighting, dressing, undressing- every second.

I have spent every waking moment of my life with me. And the truth is. . . I am sick to death of it.

I can't really fathom who, in their right mind, would not be sick of me at this point. My life, after all, never seems to change. Well, it did: People drifted away (for the good, really), I lost my first love, I got bangs. But really, it didn't: More people appeared, someone else likes me, my bangs have almost grown out.

My life really just repeats itself over and over in this strange cycle: crap and tragedy. . .then hope. . .then actual happiness . . . and then, without fail, crap and tragedy again. I'm a tragi-comic broken record- a study in numbing emotional monotony. I'm one very long sad-ass story that never seems to end.

Until now.

Now I am stating it for the record. If I could scream it to this entire pain-in-the-ass city, I would. If I could take out an ad in every piece-of-crap newspaper in India, I would do it. Because I want everyone who has ever known me to hear this and to understand it:

I am hereby changing my life.

I am breaking the cycle. I am breaking it because I can-because for the first time in God knows how long, I think I have a real chance to do it. I have the pieces of a real life staring me in the face and I swear to God, I am going to put them together if it kills me.

My enemies are gone. I have real friends. I don't even know what my friends think of me yet, but I refuse to screw it up. I have a chance to do it right this time. All of it. A chance to be real- a real girl with real feelings- no matter how pathetic I look, no matter how embarrassing my complete emotional ineptitude might be at first.

A new beginning. That is what I have here. That is what this is going to be for me.

A new beginning with a new me. A me that doesn't bitch and moan about her existential woes. A me that doesn't repeat the same fatalistic routine over and over again. A me that doesn't have to be nauseatingly sick of herself anymore.

I've already been given my first test.

I was safe and sound for a piddling year and now I've been ratted on to my mother.

Now, old Sasha would be ranting about this already- launching into some old OMG SHE IS SUCH A BITCH sob story. But I'm not going to be that person anymore. I'm not. I'm just going to recognize the facts for what they are:

- In the long-term, this shit won't matter anymore.

And so be it. I'm not going to cry about it. My hideously lonely days are over. And that will be that.

- NO MORE BITCHING.

I am so sick of it. I am sick to death of the half-assed, boring, peer-pressured soap opera that's been shoved down my throat for the past year. It's not a life. I'm not even sure what you would call what's been passing for my life.
I think you'd call it, "God's idea of a joke."

It doesn't matter. The point is, I'll tell God or the Fates or anyone else who wants to listen:

The joke is officially over.
I am pressing reset.
Do over.
I am starting my life again.

[ Picture Source : ~TheWhiteNight on www.deviantart.com ]