vague mystique.

I like to think that in order to be a successful writer, you have to have a certain amount of observational ability. This can come in many forms, such as being aware of your surroundings, being able to describe a random tree in great detail, reading the emotions of people around you, or just simply knowing how to read yourself, know what is going on inside of YOU, and knowing YOUR emotions. After all, if you cannot do these things, then how are you going to be able to convey scenery and emotions to your readers? You need to understand something to be able to explain it and write about it.

One of the things that I pride myself on is my mental strength, and the fact that I can read myself extremely well. I always know what I am feeling and why, and even realize when the emotion I am feeling is irrational. I can notice the tiniest changes in my being- a twinge of fear that’s barely perceptible, a hint of embarrassment, a speck of guilt. Nothing is buried deep in my subconscious; I never get that feeling that other people do, that’s something is bothering them and they don’t know what, or they feel like their subconscious is trying to tell them something. My subconscious is open to me- it’s like a dungeon with unlocked doors.

With that being said, I am fully aware when I am doing something I shouldn’t be, or acting self destructive. I know when I’m taking something too far, or hurting somebody’s feelings. I realize the consequences of everything I do. The only problem is that while I am always attentive, I am not always responsive. A lot of the time I know what is going on and choose to ignore it. I ignore the red alerts my brain is sending me, the perceptive abilities I have, and the screams of, “NO! DON’T!” inside my head. I know the power something has, or what something can do, and just brush it aside. I am a rebel against my own being.

I know why I do this. I know why I take part in so many potentially destructive activities, and why I deliberately do things that I know will come back and bite me in the buttocks. It is because, and it pains me to admit this to the entire world, deep down I know I deserve everything that comes to me. I deserve to be hurt, mangled, shattered, destroyed, and shredded. I deserve to be damaged.

The truth, my adored readers, is that in all reality I am not a good person. If you looked up the phrase “good person,” in the dictionary, actually, my name would probably be listed as the acronym. I understand that to my friends and family (Hell, even to complete strangers) I come across a well mannered teenage girl that always says please and thank you, is polite to practically everybody, and tends to keep to herself around most people, but in all reality this is not the case; it is actually just an act (An extremely well played act that deserves a few golden globes in my opinion, at that). This girl, though, this polite girl that everyone seems to like, is not me.

The real Rosalie Bass is an intelligent, icy female who has a personality darker than cave darkness. She is absolutely, positively heartless, and has had the empathy beaten out of her with force at a young age. I like to believe that I’m like Sylar from the show Heroes, in a way- I feel little, but understand much. I’m not even joking, either, when I say that I have no empathy in me; my own grandfather died earlier this week and I laughed when I found out. When my friends try to have serious conversations with me, like how they feel suicidal and don’t want to live anymore, I feel the opposite of sympathy- I feel that they’re weak and melodramatic, even though I’m the most suicidal person anyone has ever met. When I cause bad things to happen in fights or arguments, I never, ever take responsibility- apologizing is something that I never honestly do (I may say it if I’m tired of arguing, but I doubt I’ve ever meant it, no matter who I said it to). My main response when I screw things up with somebody is, “They’ll get over it.” I once was joking around with my boyfriend, actually, and since my number one joking around choice is telling people to go kill themselves, I told him to go hang himself for not calling me the previous day and that he’s a big fat jerk. I didn’t know he actually tried to commit suicide once and was extremely sensitive about that topic. I also didn’t know that he was feeling depressed at the time and was actually considering killing himself. What did I chose to do? I told my friends, who knew what was going on, that he would get over it. I felt NOTHING upon realizing my own boyfriend has tried and was considering killing himself. NOTHING. What ended up happening was me faking some apology and telling him I love him repeatedly, then getting angry when he didn’t accept my apology and refusing to talk to him the rest of the day.

That’s right- I’m that cold.

I also have a wildly sadistic sense of humor and laugh at things most normal people would cringe at. I am also absolutely repulsed by people that cry and in most cases either stare in disgust or have to leave the area until the friend/family member in distress calms down. I hate children. I also hate being around mellow people that are always avoiding arguments and dodging drama, who never do a crazy, insane thing or participate in something stupid and risky just because. Most of the time I don’t have a filter on what I say and usually end up saying something insensitive, in which case I get annoyed with the person I offended for being so weak and susceptible.

My favorite quality about myself is that I am an expert liar- a pathological one, of course, but still an expert. I spent the majority of my time lying. I reckon the reason behind is that when I was younger I never wanted to tell people how much I was suffering because of Serena and my grandmother’s constant fighting and the hostile environment I was in, so I lied about how I was feeling, but whatever. My lies are just… awesome. I can get anybody to believe something that’s not true, and because I have no empathy and feel no remorse, I can get away with it. I lie to everybody, all the time, about the most random things. If I find myself in a pickle, I lie myself out of it. I can hold multiple lies at once, remember lies, and when I mess up, I lie myself out of the lie! The truth is redundant and overrated- lying takes skill and not everybody can do it. I think the trick to my ability is that when I lie, my lies are completely and utterly detailed, down to the shirt I was wearing or what I was feeling at the time. I speak normally when I lie, can look people directly in the eye when I lie, and I bet I could lie to the pope himself, in person, if I could. It’s wonderful… and probably a reason I’m such a good writer.

Anyway, though, back to the point of this entry: the real Rosalie Bass is a hostile, horrible person who deserves everything that comes to her. I’m heartless, soulless, and have ice where my emotions should be. I am a silent sufferer and lie myself out of everything. I may feel remorse or guilt every now and then, but it’s rare. Basically, on the inside, I am a demon. On the outside, however, I am likeable, polite person who listens to your problems and pretends to care about you.

The only problem in this lovely arrangement I have is that the demon part, the real, honest part, is dying to come out and play.