I expect to get good grades, and when I don't, I totally beat myself up for it. I expect myself to do all these things and do them perfectly, and I just can't. And because I expect these things from myself, I project that feeling and think that others expect it of me as well.
Most people just want you to succeed and be happy. And that's all we should want for ourselves, too. To be happy. We don't need to expect all these things, and other people don't expect us to do more than we can. They also won't have a misconception of how much we can do unless we set it up ourselves. Or maybe it comes from something else, but one bad job and no one expects you to do it really well from now on.
There are other kinds of expectations. Those ones we don't want to have but we do. These are more like dreams or hopes, but part of us just can't help but believe that it's going to happen. Beinga professional sports player, being a famous musician, being an actor, an author, anything. These are things that we're told as teenagers that we cannot be. People expect us to give up these dreams, but we don't have to. Sure, they might not work out, but we shouldn't give them up just because someone else expects us to fail.
And sometimes we expect things from our friends. We expect them to always be nice, always be in a good mood. We expect that guy to know that we like them and ask us out, and we expect everyone to know when we're in a bad mood and they need to stay away. We need to accept that people don't know what we're thinking. We need tostop expecting things of others that we wouldn't want others to expect of us.
I should find the quotes before I write these.
Sitting on the cold pavement alone as the sun sets the ants that crawl viciously within the cracks of our concrete world begin to dissipate. Lights and engines remind us that while we surround ourselves with loved ones we are essentially alone in this world. The street is quiet and the air has given up being muggy and uncooperative and so there i sit alone, my backpack lying in a deflated black heap against the curb watching the day slip from my trembling fingers as i wipe away the stains on my face and I am reminded that I must be remembered after my painful existence is taken from me. Rummaging through my backpack a scrap of paper and a leaking pen are manifested as a symbol that my world will never be as perfect as I desire them to be. Never will see my dreams transcribed into the days of endless struggle that make up my reality. I write of the struggle that I feel and soon realize that no one will give a shit about how I feel if I am alone. I drop the pen into the gutter and from my mouth I vocalize the darkness until my lungs gasp for air and i replenish the natural balance of self hatred and societal demand within my misconstrued body. The thick rubber winds around the corner and a familiar face is revealed by the sliding window. Flinching my eyes open as i feel the teeming ants crawling up my arm and reach for my backpack but it is gone. Mounting the steps I walk toward my house as the moon guides my tattered eyes; "How's that for expectations" I squabble silently under my dissipating breath and i reach up and wipe the stinging sensation from my ragged eyes once more.
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