I hate this poem - looking at old journals was better than writing this miserable confession

I have come to a conclusion.  Being less self-conscious might be a desirable state of being.  There's an early spring night warming pavement with cooling breezes and I'm sweating in front of a computer, thinking about algebra homework I should be doing.  A tiny bit of resentful hatred fizzes beneath my knuckles.  A bit drunk on Pinot Grigio, which is strange enough in itself.  I want to say something about my numerous flaws, how profound the notice of others is, and why it should not matter that I care so very much.  Except I'm a product of my formative stages, and no amount of therapy or self-actualization is going to repair any of these damages.  I am like one standing at the edge of a crowd watching the unfortunate scene fall out, like the seamstress observing a mannequin in robes that needs to be pushed away instead of hugged tight to my side.