There are times, when the thought of ridding the world of every trace of myself seems like a good idea.

If you cannot see it, then perhaps it never was?

Still can’t find it.

I’ve come to despise getting up early. I can no longer sleep 14 hours as I used to so easily. I miss that now, because when I wake I have an entire day ahead of me, one I never quite know what to do with. I want to feel better. I want to wake up and feel as though it’s a good thing to have hours at my disposal. But now it is as if the hours left over after work are nothing but fillers that I ungraciously want to toss aside and forget about. I keep talking about this, maybe because I am uncertain what it means or what I can do to change it.

Every day off I try. I’ll go through ten different projects trying to find one to keep me occupied, or I’ll play some videogame for a very short while, or I’ll even sit down and make a rather sad attempt at reading something, even if it is a local newspaper that’s more mundane to me than perpetually watching the Weather Channel. Anything. Usually what happens is I eat. I cook throughout the day, and eat, over and over and over. I always end up sick and regretting it by evening, but that doesn’t slow the process. I continue until, finally, I find myself doubled over, my stomach so fed up that it will make quite a valiant attempt to free up space.

I might heave for twenty minutes, but I stubbornly refuse to vomit. No, I get to live with these consequences. I get to spend the night in pain, and the next morning nauseated, and go to work and pretend that there’s nothing wrong with me, even though the upper part of my stomach is so painfully swollen it will literally have gained inches overnight to accomodate whatever I ended up binging on. It takes about two days to return to normal, and by then I either begin again, or don’t eat at all.

Why I do this is still not clear. Stress, I would think, though I rarely show any kind of panic or anger at work. All of it seems to come to me when I get home, like the gates to hell have been opened, and it swarms me suddenly. Our turnover rate is extraordinarily high, particularly in the area I work in, and it’s easy to guess why. We must have begun our original orientation about six months ago with about a hundred people all together, that were spread out over four different stores to be trained before coming to the store we are at now. We have a board the in breakroom with congratulations signs on it for those who made it to the sixth month. There are about fifteen names on it, nearly all of which are those who became managers.

We constantly get new crew, and I find myself struggling to remember their names. Most of them won’t last, I can tell already. They spend their first two weeks being willing slaves, then get lazier and lazier once they get comfortable. I get irritated and will literally walk around them if they aren’t going fast enough for my taste. I’m sick of being blamed for their inability to do a very simple job. All it takes is energy, but they whine constantly about not getting their breaks when all they do is stand around, while I’m busy doing most of their job and my own. I’m lucky if I get two breaks out of three.

I come back from breaks and generally find everything backed up, with a screen full orders, shitloads of empty trays (all of which should be filled with food), and two managers in the front screaming orders at people, trying in vain to sort through the chaos, while their shitty front people continuously hand out the wrong orders. There have been times where they will pull me from my half early because one of the newer crew has gotten too far behind to catch up on their own.

I hate breaks. I hate them. I need to sit down; I shouldn’t be running around for 6-9 hours straight, but because nearly all the crew in the back is new and all of the girls I generally work with aren’t around because of training at the moment, it’s like going into a nightmare. The floor will be a disaster, slicked in grease and covered with bits of fallen food, then there will be a screen blinking, with four orders up and god knows how many pending. The machine that prints out special receipts will have a tail of paper hanging down to the floor, sometimes with more receipts shooting out the top and floating down into a pile. The managers always give me a sympathetic look. And then of course, I have to fix it.

One particular instance, several weeks ago, I finally got so irritated I sent the woman away from the table (I had already been pulled from my break twenty minutes early and wasn’t a happy camper). I wouldn’t even let her work with me, that was how badly it was going. She’s a shift manager (highest you can go unless you are the store manager) who has been working as long as I have, and the woman can barely make a sandwich. To top it off she is incredibly slow about it for no reason other than that she doesn’t want to work. I finally looked over at her and said, “Go do prep”, because she was standing there looking at the food more than she was making it. No one said a word.

And still they have been constantly hinting to me at my promotion as some kind of manager (they all seem to have different ideas…), which I don’t even know if I want. In all honesty, I’m an idiot. When I talk about this job like I’m good at it, all that I mean is that I’m willing to do it. That’s the only problem with employees: they don’t want to do it like it should be done. It’s an easy fucking job. You memorize some shit and make food, how hard can it be? But apparently no one wants to work for their money, or deal with that fact, that yeah, we get screamed at, yeah, there are some angry customers who come in and treat you like shit. I’ve had people standing at the counter give me step-by-step instructions on how to make their sandwiches because they ‘don’t trust the grill people to do it properly’. Yeah, because apparently if you work in fast food you must be a dumb fucking cunt that can’t read ‘add 1 cheese, no mustard’ on a screen.

It’s fucking insulting, the way people will look at me if I walk down to the local supermarket to pick up a few things and happen to be wearing my uniform. At the bank they always ask me, ‘where do you work?’ and when I answer they have to restrain themselves from raising an eyebrow. Yeah, I know, I’m not in the white-collar job my parents wanted me to have, I’m not going to college to become yet another of the supposedly educated masses. I stand over by some grills all day, making minimum wage, then go home and never leave the house.

To be incredibly honest, most days it seems like being dead would be more rewarding. I’m still not sure how to change that perception for myself.

Oh don’t worry, it’s not your life!

This week has been terrible. I’ve been holding the anger in, making a pretty good attempt. But fuck it. It’s not like saying it aloud here, in the abyss of ‘anonymous’ internet is hurting anyone. The people who should be reading it—my parents—are about as likely to stumble on this as the spear of fucking destiny. But well, with my luck…let’s not even get into it.

I woke up on my day off (this was a couple of days ago) to find my parents trading car information back and forth. My mother is on her computer, my father on his. Apparently if I am registered with an older vehicle it cuts down our insurance payment by about a hundred dollars a month. So there they are, looking for a car. They didn’t even ask me. They’re talking about forking out some of whatever they’ve been saving, and I know that in the end I would have to produce something as well. Which is fine. I don’t care about the money. What I care about is when people make decisions for me, when I am legally considered an adult. Usually I am nonchalant about that kind of thing, so maybe that is why they thought it would be alright to start searching without telling me about it. But I don’t know…it made me furious. I may not have much of a life, or put forward much effort, but I think I still deserve to make a few choices in it. 

They had even called someone who was selling one of the cars. Without me.

Maybe I’m taking this too seriously. Maybe I’m being a stupid cunt about it, and I should get over it since they are being nice enough to even consider paying for part of it. But fuck, is it so much to ask that I be included from the beginning? I’ve talked a lot about getting an old car, for the purpose of having something that I wouldn’t have to worry about wrecking. But I’ve been working all of a month, so obviously, that is not at the top of my priorities right now, and probably never would be, because for one I don’t like to drive anyway. I was never all that serious about going through with it. At any time.

Then the other day, I was quading over in this area I wasn’t familiar with. I was about fifteen miles from my house, not a good place to get stuck in. The stupid thing was roaring and bogging down. It’s been doing this, even though the throttle was adjusted and it should be just fine. It has always had problems, so for the most part I ignore it when it acts up. Eventually, about halfway up the fucking mountain, I turned around and went back, because I could tell it was going to die. I did get it home, but only by gunning it the entire way to keep it from hesitating to the point of stalling.

Then I had left some money on the washing machine for gas—dad went and bought premium fuel with it. I can barely afford regular fuel, so now, instead of filling the gas canister in the garage all the way, it was only half full. All I do is use my ATV, really. There isn’t much else I do, so it kind of pissed me off. Yeah, I get that he wants them to run better, cleaner, but if it had been hismoney he would never have bought that fuel. He would have bought regular like he always does, otherwise I wouldn’t have had an issue with it. I’m trying to be lenient and show some trust and it just keeps blowing up in my face. I honestly couldn’t care less about the money, that’s what is so ridiculous. I’m not planning any future or doing anything with it. What angers me is that other people seem to think it is okay to do things without my permission. I’d like to have a fucking say in how my own life is run, thanks.

I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ve never shown an interest in deciding anything anyway, have I? So people assume I will continue to be the same way.

Those things are just a few in the long list of things that have gone wrong this week. I hope it lets up soon; I don’t have much tolerance to keep handling it all silently.

Don’t look back.

I don’t like turmoil. I think everything is still building as it was before, going toward this insane climax that I am trying to ignore. Things keep stopping and starting, and I miss the sense of sameness that I am so used to.

The other day, my mom decided to have another of her moods. She gets distraught over things very easily. I don’t quite remember what it was (yes, it was that important), but she was bitchy when I got up, and she was pretty rude when I said good morning to her. I happened to be in an alright mood (a rarity for mornings), so it kind of irritated me, but I just thought to myself, “whatever” and rumaged around the kitchen, pointedly ignoring her. I could hear her talking on the phone, sounding tired and monotone.

She always changes her voice when she’s upset about something. She loses inflection and kind of croaks things out as though her throat is sore or something, and it really pisses me off for some reason. Maybe because I feel like that all the time but I don’t have to make a fucking show of it to get some sympathy.

So I decide I’m going to go out since it is relatively sunny, and I shower and get dressed and all of that, then go back into the livingroom to tell her that I’m leaving for awhile. She’s sitting there in front of her computer playing solitaire. Her head is bowed down and she’s crying. I can tell from across the room, even.

I say it flatly: “What’s wrong.”

It’s not even a question, because I know she’ll elaborate. She’s like that. If I do something that bothers her she goes straight to my dad with it, like a child that doesn’t know how to handle a problem. And she always sits there and prattles on about things to me, things she knows I don’t give a shit about. I have told her on more than one occasion that I could easily go into a monologue about the digestive system if she wants to keep talking about the price differences on food from different stores. We’re nothing alike; our interests are like night and day. Finding things in common is quite difficult, which is probably why we often fall into constant arguing.

Of course, she jumps on the chance to have someone to talk to. I know she’s lonely, but fuck. It’s not like anyone is going to pay me the same courtesy. She goes onto explain the whole thing, and blah, blah, blah. I’m standing there with a helmet in my hand, impatiently waiting for her to finish. I don’t bother to tell her that I’m missing half of what she’s saying because I have my headphones on. She doesn’t notice. But I make it obvious that I’m not in the mood to commiserate.

All I say is “Yeah.” 

She wants to say more, I can tell, but my heart is like ice to her. I don’t know what I feel toward her anymore. I’m a physical guardian, it seems, nothing more. It does not go beyond that much of the time, and it scares me a little. I should feel bad, try to help, but all I can think of is all the times I suffer alone, constantly. The ache of misery never leaves me, even if I am number than numb. I am not a savior, and I refuse to be hers. She can mourn her loss all she wants, I will not stand by her and offer my shoulder. Those times are gone.

I look at her. I sigh, more out of annoyance at being delayed than anything else.

I walk away.

Mindless pursuit of nothing.

Life for me is vices. You choose a few and you stick with them. You hope against hope that they will be enough to convince you to see the sunrise of tomorrow. It has to be enough, it must be. There is nothing else between these walls to have. There is no bright future to imagine, because no matter where I am, alone or not, I will never be pleased. I can smile, I can laugh, but the second I think beyond that moment…it all dies.

I acknowledge that this place is my own. I gave up my chance to get away. I could have finished college and gotten a degree that I hated so that I could make enough money to move the fuck away. I can still do that now, if I arrange it all carefully, but what does it matter? What do I plan to do? I will have my own house on some deserted lot and live my misery on the fringe of everything, as I have always done. It will be no different. Alone, surrounded…it’s all the same. I can’t get away from myself. All I can do is pick at the threads and try to pull myself apart more quickly.  

I want so badly for it to mean something, all of this. Not purpose—I will not search for that—it doesn’t exist. All I want is to wake without regretting it. I want to know that even if I am doing the most mundane of things, it is alright. I want to believe that it is not nonsensical suffering, that there is something here for me that will make it less terrible. I wouldn’t expect good. Hell, I wouldn’t even expect decent. I know it would always be horrible, that the pain would always far outweigh anything pleasant. But I want some fucking ‘pleasant’. Where is it?

I’m beginning to suspect I’ve become numbed to it, any feelings of satisfaction or pleasure. I am the most jaded thing. I find something and I drain it until there is nothing left, until it can’t even bring a hint of relief. What is there after those things have been burned away? Do I find something new, pursue something else? Repeat this, over and over every time something grows tiresome?  

Everything has no taste. Bland and fucking dry. I feel like all I have been doing all these years is force-feeding myself justification—reasons to live—in this endless cycle of unstoppable gluttony. I’ve gotten lazy and complacent about it, not bothering to change things up, to explore beyond what is familiar and known to me. Now it’s too late. I can’t taste it anymore; it’s sand on my tongue and means nothing. It doesn’t make any difference now that I need it to survive. I’d still obstinately push the plate away even with that knowledge, because I simply do not wish to tolerate the tastelessness and grit any longer.

The feelings have not passed still. It’s been too long. They’re dogging my footsteps now, waiting, those demons fucking lurking around the corners to come extract their pound of flesh. Come and get it I say. Come take it if you dare. I don’t want it. I’ll take my apathy back over this any day. I’ll take nothing over sorrow. I’ll take numb. At least then I can distance myself from this, see it clearly without the taint of a bitter, unneeded heart.

Put me back in my coma.

Road to disaster.

I feel so terrible. The fire in me has burned out today. When I first woke up, I was ready to deal with everything, but by 5:00 in the afternoon I was a wreck. I never showed it, but fuck, it hurt.

I used the phone twice today (I nearly had a panic attack doing so…), to talk to the person from yesterday. He apparently did not take in a word I said. He didn’t even return my first call. So I was pushy and called him a second time after I learned a few interesting things.

He thought I was still enrolled in college. He must not have even read my application, which clearly stated I was immediately available. Not only that, but I told him I was free to do as I wished. I only learned through the grapevine why he didn’t even check up on my background like he was supposed to. He says he’ll call back early in the week after he talks to one of the other people who works in his department. Again, I’m counting on nothing, and it’s absolutely infuriating. I wanted to throw a tantrum. I was so high-strung and angry that I did nothing but pace while my mom was at the grocery store. I had to fight to keep myself from doing something.  

But this lasted the entire day. Calling and waiting. Laying out a game plan and deciding how I was going to deal with everything. I didn’t eat for hours and hours, and I was ill well into the afternoon, trying to last on black coffee. Then, when it became clear he wasn’t going to get to it today either, I just started eating. And eating.

I had one of those one person things of ice cream (the entire thing; about 1 cup), which was about 340 calories. Next I ripped off some of the baker’s bread my mom had bought, and ate that (say 100 calories or more). Then I went and had a bowl of macaroni and cheese with some sort of meat in it. I guess it was leftovers. Then I went and had some of what my dad was eating; greasy potatoes with loads of cheese and one of those round sausage things. I’m guessing between the mac and cheese and the dinner, it was a good…oh…800-1000 calories. So that would put the tally, at the worst,  1440ish. Sounds like nothing, right? That’s what someone eats on a diet, yes? That’s almost twice what I usually eat…on a bad day. Then I considered going for the cookie jar…but suddenly…I was not feeling so well.

Needless to say, my stomach, which has become accustomed to an almost purely vegetarian diet, was far worse off than even boiling stomach acid had made it earlier. I felt like I was going to barf everywhere. I considered vomiting just so I wouldn’t feel so exceptionally sick, but I hate barfing, so I kept it all down, somehow. I still felt disgusting afterward, and the anger from earlier was still there, right beneath it all.

So I channeled it. Rode the stationary bike for 20 something miles on an evil setting and, insanely enough, according to the little calculator, burned just about 1000 calories. My hour and a half long walks only burn 300-400 calories, unfortunately. I was sweating all over myself because of that ridiculous thing, but I got it done. Then I went and did some stupid video for a half an hour, even though my muscles were screaming. I still feel gross. I feel like I’ve ruined a week and a half of work resisting all the food that keeps getting shoved at me at restaurants with the godparents. I can hardly eat anything anymore without feeling sick. Binges are pretty pathetic, considering what they used to be. I could scarf a pizza by myself not a year ago. Now I’m lucky if I can get down four slices without a wretched, overly full feeling.

I think I fought the anger well enough; I haven’t done anything stupid. I wore myself out on purpose. I’m so damn wound up I’m not even tired right now, just weary, like I’ve been awake too long. I feel idiotic talking about this. I’ve talked about similar things, but keep setting the posts to private not five minutes after I post them. I don’t know why I’m so afraid of saying the truth. I want to lie. I want to say that I’m perfectly fine and that I’m not going mad, but…. I’m getting weaker and weaker. I’m breaking. And sometimes…I’m so damn glad that it might all be over soon.

Sometimes giving up sounds so much better.

I feel like I don’t want to fight for me anymore. I want to give up, just stop all of this madness. I keep telling myself that it is so pointless to continue, that I am not going to be mourned long, that there is nothing in this life I’m going to be missing out on. I can’t love, I can’t be, not without feeling so incredibly wrong. I want nothing from this place. It holds no magic for me anymore, no mystery that must be solved. I figured it out as well as I ever will and now all I want is out.

I don’t want to have a future. I want to jepordize it so that there is no chance, no more excuses for me to continue. I’m only doing this because it is what I was taught. It’s not what I want. Fuck, it’s never what I want. I know I am a failure for willing this all away. So many people certainly have it worse, but they want to be here, for whatever reason. In these moments of clarity, it is not the uselessness and pointlessness that hurts the most, but the knowledge that there is something in me, somewhere, that has inadvertently kept me going. I know that this survival instinct is so fucking futile, and it disgusts me that I hold onto something after learning just how ugly it is on the inside. I’m stupid for doing so, just as worthless as the people I hate for accepting this system, embracing and loving it for the pseudo power it grants them.

Wave salvation in my face and I’ll throw it all away. I don’t want to go to the interview in two days; I’d rather…not be around instead.

How fucked up is that? I need to stop thinking like this. I need to face what I hate. But all I want is an easy way out, a permanent darkness where consciousness doesn’t exist. Where I don’t exist. I want to never have a thought again. Because I think I won’t make it. I can’t bear going on when it’s nothing but pain and hatred and wallowing and lies. This isn’t going to change. I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and feel like I live in a beautiful world, with wonderful people that I want to care for and help. If I make it, I’m going to hate every second, and I’m so sure of it…that I can’t stand it.

If I live I’m an idiot. If I die I’m a failure who gives up too easily. There is nothing to win, always a draw.

Always grey.

The awkwardness of living.

I left the house for the first time in at least a month, it might have been two; I have lost track of time. It’s strange, trying to integrate. I feel dissociative. I feel like I’m not a part of this place, just an observer, just someone watching with the flat affect, that humdrum numbness that is beginning to seep into everything. It is right sometimes, that apathy; it makes me perfect. It makes me…unaffected.

I didn’t feel any anxiety, more of an awkwardness. This hasn’t happened in a long time. There was no pulling from the bottom of my stomach, no lurch that made me want to run to the nearest corner and vomit. The cold sweat never came, my voice was quiet, but steady. Acceptance, I guess. Acceptance that though I am nothing to these people and they are nothing to me, in order to survive I have to tolerate them. It didn’t hurt; I can’t feel anything right now anyway.

I was standing in line for coffee. No, I didn’t force my mother to go get it for me; I took the money and went to the register myself without even thinking about it. She was on the other side of the store. It sounds like nothing, but my misanthropy and introverted nature have made simple tasks like that absolute torture. The looks, the eyes I can feel burning into me. The knowledge that my ineptness is completely and totally visible, that I am making a fool of myself before I even speak. This usually floods me, but not this time, not when everything is so impossibly cut off, disconnected. I’m more like something automated than something living.

The awkwardness came when I realized I didn’t know who was next; I assumed I was, but the woman behind me had moved toward the register and I just stood there. I blinked, thought about it, and stayed exactly as I was. I wasn’t in a hurry, and I really couldn’t care less if she went ahead of me. Then she tells me to go, smiling. I say sorry, and mutter something about not paying attention.

Again, this sounds normal. It sounds like any everyday event. But the fact is, standing in front of a cash register and having to order something and converse with an employee is more painful to me than something dying. I feel it like a tragedy. It builds like some sort of fucked up finale: standing, waiting, knowing that impending doom is coming for me. That soon, I’m going to have to talk to whoever is standing there, I’m going to have to feign that the last flitting thought through my head was not about sticking one of my hands into the blender sitting on the tabletop. Then, ding. I’m next.

I had a bit of a breakdown today. I threw a silent tantrum and binged on everything I could find in the pantry. I must have eaten two days’ worth of food (at least by my meager standards). I had to get my mind off of the thoughts, I had to concentrate on feeling something besides complete agony. Breathing, existing…it hurts more than anything sometimes. I wanted to sleep, but it seemed that no one would have it. The cat meowed, attempting to rip the tape I’d stuck to the bottom of my door to block out the sound of existence. I locked the door, but people tried to get in anyway. Finally I managed a few hours. I woke up ravenous and dull feeling. I ate sugar like it was a drug; I needed the shock to my system because I was feeling so incredibly low.

I hate these mood swings. My six month diet change has altered everything, made it all worse. I’ve menstrated twice this month, which to me is bizarre after having times in the past where I’ve gone years without a single period. But it makes me emotional in a very strange way. I cry for stupid reasons, but yet I don’t feel it…. How to explain…. It’s like I’m crying for how sad I am, but I’m using other things in order to pry the tears out of myself. So I’m not crying for the movie, I’m crying for the residules of whatever this is. The darkness. Because I can never cry for it. I never get to shed it; it just stays there, impervious to everything. Perhaps then, I do need to mood swings, if only to vent.

It’s ridiculous what effects me and what doesn’t. My boldness shows in some places, yet shrinks in others. I wore my corset to the stores, and didn’t cover it up with a jacket. Just didn’t care. I like it, I felt like wearing it. People stared and I didn’t care. Where I live isn’t exactly the place to dress up; I was out of place. How fitting. Sometimes I think I like that they know it, others…I’m not so sure. But why can I wear what I wish yet not present myself without feeling incredibly inadequate/out of place? I want to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it. 

It’s been a long day. I need more sleep.

It’s a lost cause, always was.

Sleeping the days away doesn’t make any difference. Nothing improves, I just waste time, purposefully, laughingly. It was a joke when I got up this morning, and it was a joke the day before. It’s always a joke, yet for some reason—stupidity I would guess—I continue to stay. I was thinking yesterday and this morning about how I would do it, deeply considering. I should be scared of this, I should feelsomething about it all, but there’s nothing but bleak blankness, blind, uncaring acceptance. The voice in my head isn’t protesting like it usually does, instead it’s like a shrug of the shoulders that more or less says ‘do as you like’, which makes me beyond frustrated.

I’ve tried to concentrate on other things today. I even broke my useless diet (it’s more a torture device at this point)and ate a few things that I wanted. I went running. I braided my hair in sections. I focused on playing videogames, but soon got bored, wandering back to the same thoughts from earlier. I won’t ask for help; I’m still to proud for that. This is my misery, I’ll deal with it in any way I see fit.

I’m sick of living for the sake of others. It’s useless—I always know it is, but the truth is I don’t know if I’d be around if there wasn’t some guilt there.

In two weeks there’s going to be a job fair where I’d put in my resume where my dad works. And I don’t care. In fact, when he told me, I kept thinking ‘I need to die before that happens’. Real optimistic, don’t you think? I don’t want to live anymore, I see no reason. That’s why I’m so confused that there is still hesitation. I feel as though I’m waiting for nothing, but yet if I don’t wait, I’ll miss it. Miss what? I don’t know. I think part of me is still attached to that idea of finding some sort of happiness, somehow. I want it badly sometimes, even though I vaguely understand that it’s not going to be possible in this state I’m in.

People say ‘change’. They think that it can all be willed away. How, by being with others, by caring for these pieces of garbage? They’re supposed to mean something to me, they don’t. I love that when I say that people assume I am joking. The only way to get rid of this is by willing the world away. I’d have to hole myself up somewhere, alone, all alone. That would make this go away.

Why do I insist on fighting this? Why is it so fucking hard to accept? Years of this bullshit, yet I keep sticking around. And I hate myself for it. I am my own misery, and only I can offer any kind of salvation.

For those who seek help: you’ll never find any….

I wonder sometimes if I have a secret fear of death that I’m not accounting for. I’ve come to believe that it’s that idea that keeps me around, you know, the one that everyone always is so fixated on. Things getting better, or finding something different that suddenly makes me realize it will all somehow be worth it, that misery is somehow redeemed.

Does anyone stop and think about how childish that sounds? Do they understand that this is their own, the one thing that belongs to them, this life? It’s more control than any of these people deserve, but they have it and squander it. I’m not endorsing suicide, I’m endorsing taking control of what you have and doing what you want with it, and to hell with anyone who would dare speak otherwise. You can burn it, cut it, break it, starve it, and no one can stop you.

And the funny thing is, the only ones who do get stopped are the ones who scream bloody murder about it, showing off their deeds to anyone who will take the time to look. And people wonder why suicides are always so ‘abrupt’ or ‘completely unexpected’. Perhaps you just did not look. I would never show myself to anyone, even if I was dying, I would never tell. Because that would mean betrayal, that would mean sacrificing the few secrets I can keep. Note to those who just don’t get it: it’s the quiet ones that go through with it and succeed, not the whining lunatics searching for attention and a few chapters to add to their bland life story.

Everyone wants to think it’s their business. Ha. If I want to die, it’s my choice. Just like it’s my choice if I want to fuck or bleed or write bullshit down for people to read. But it’s all for me, always has been. It’s so I feel better…. I’m just so tired of a world that feigns ignorance, that screams about anger when they don’t even take the time to understand what they speak of. Who is the selfish person, the one who dies, or the person who begs the other to live when it is nothing but pain? I’ve said this before, but I don’t care. Selfishness is a matter of perspective.

We’re our own saviors. I’m my own personal jesus. There’s no one that’s going to die in my name, or walk through the bowels of this hell for me. But I would, for me. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, now would I? This is about living for yourself, accepting that no one else is reason enough to stick around for. You live for you, or not at all. To live for someone else is nothing but a bastardization of life and what it’s meant to be: enjoyment and lots of pain. Only for yourself, always for yourself.  People will come and go, but you will always remain.