a poem to my executioner, who i must implore to decapitate me neatly with her guillotine, my eyes toward horizon after my head has rolled off into the lacrosse courts:
i stopped using a planner this year half from early onset senioritis, half from a perpetual sense of i'm-not-good-enough. i've realized i really don't like appearing too organized, because it suggests i work really hard, and when people notice that, i always feel kind of... bad.
i have an instantaneous, two-part reaction of self-loathing whenever someone tells me i'm hardworking. the first is panic: they don't realize just how lazy i am on the inside and they've only seen me pretending, and when they see the Real Me, they will be disappointed and i will be exposed as the worthlessness that i am. the second is realization that maybe i am actually hardworking. this is a lot worse because it means that somewhere along the line, i stopped being good enough to just coast along without working, and that at some point, things got hard for me, and that i am not even naturally that smart, and that i will have to keep working hard and harder and even harder or else i will fail, because i don't have any innate gifts that make me exceptional.
anyway someone told me i worked hard and i turned beet red and provided all the evidence i have that i really don't and that i don't even come in on sundays most of the time.