You Are Not Me

Dear Reader:
You may think you know me. But you don't.
Maybe I'm not be the best writer.
Maybe I don't write about how people in other countries do their food storage. Maybe I don't write what you want to read. Maybe you'll want to read something else. Maybe I'm not sorry for that either. Maybe I just want to make people happy, but I don't like to brag about myself when I do it. Maybe I love people, but maybe I hate their sarcasm. Taz vez solo quiero pensar en espanol para que nadie me entienda. Maybe I hate boys and the concept that one day I'll have to marry one of them. Maybe I hate cooking for myself because everything ends in a disaster. Maybe I just want to cry right now because I'm so frustrated with the world. Maybe I'm bored but I can't decide if I like it or dislike it. Maybe I'd like to meet new people, but I prefer just holing down here in the basement with my computer typing my heart out. Maybe I hate people really. Maybe I despise change. Maybe I fear that people don't like me. Maybe I really am a happy person, but right now I'm just mad. Maybe I'm mad because I think those who are closest to me don't really care about the things I care about. Maybe I'm blocking myself out. Maybe I really don't like myself right now. Maybe I'm good at some things, but I don't know what, so I just keep doing what I've always done, hoping that someday I'll be good at something, when really I'm not good at anything.
So maybe I'm not the best writer.
Maybe I just don't care because I know if I wrote what you wanted to read, it wouldn't be me.
You wouldn't understand. Not even Maybe.
You wouldn't understand. Ever.
Because you are not me.