I am an incompetant pianist. I cannot think of anything else to call myself, except very much retarded. My progress is pitiful. No, not even that. Pathetic. It’s not worth pity, it’s just pathetic.
I can’t play the piano. My skills (if you can call them that) aren’t anything special. I can’t play really fast songs or really cool or catchy songs. I can’t hear a song and know how to play it on the keys, let alone create the harmony for it. I am incompetant, and my music skills are near worthless.
I will never be as good as my brother. That much is adamant. I can count on him always overshadowing me. But I do not know if I will ever live up to my own expectations, either. I’m not going anywhere. I should quit. I long to quit, but that would be afruitless and ultimately stupid waste of the past eight years of music lessons. The collective thousands of dollars of learning and the hundreds upon hundreds of hours of practicing. Why let that go to waste?
But it still doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere. I see now why Mrs Slawomirski didn’t trust me. Because I can’t be trusted.
This is just me in a very bad mood. I have to go to PLC for a chorale rehearsal in half an hour, I haven’t practiced Jupiter seriously for days (and I need to know it by 9am tomorrow, back to front) and the Year 9 mass in period 6? Mr Thessiera, find someone else. I can’t do it. I just can’t. So fuck off and leave me alone.

If I go to school tomorrow, expect there to be tears in my eyes. I feel close to worthless. And I really need a hug. Eugene says I’m a drama queen. I know he’s right. Maybe if I just become emotionalless and indifferent to everything, like Ben Byrne. Monotonous and listless. Nah, too boring. Not enough life. I just need to pull myself together.

It’s too bad I gave up chocolate for Lent. I need those damned endorphins. I need breathing room.

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