double edged sword

I spend my time trying to figure out the people who can't do it for themselves- or won't do it for themselves- because I don't understand how I've become my own self. Let me make you happy because you're just like me, and I'm not sure how this train-railing underbelly of a smile came whamming and slamming to my face on the top of an Alabama rooftop. I'll make my life an indie film, a French novella because I've been thinking that I'm the ubermensch or that silly girl you could write a book about, the one with all of the understanding but none of the confidence. Ironic, isn't it, our layers of insecurity and arrogance, piled one after the other, that we peel away to seduce or befriend or comfort others, claiming that 'oh no, I understand, I've been there before, and I know how to make it better' or 'don't judge me, I don't pretend know what I'm talking about, not with my racing thoughts and my expanding waist and my complete inability' to focus and step outside myself and be anything other than this stack of pages or peeling skin. I'm looking for validation in you and in everyone, even though I shouldn't be online when the sun is still out. I want to speak for our generation, make people feel like I've felt, alone at movie theatres, moved to sit alone and scribble and cross my fingers and hope for my life to be Important and Interesting one day.

I know I'm a cliche, but I mean it, I mean it, I really do mean it. Doesn't that count for something? Perhaps I sound like someone I tease, but I can't name five famous critics.