Forever routine, and God the band aid.

Same thing, day after day, over and over and over. Get up. Eat. Exercise. Eat. Fuck around on the computer. Sleep. I’m bored by my own existence, by the pointlessness of it. It continues yet I feel as though I am not a part of it, only some distant observer uninterested in what is occurring because it is not my life. It’s so wrong to wake up alive, it’s so wrong to breathe when there is nothing to live for but a secret hope that things will somehow miraculously improve. I just have to ask one question: what the fuck can be improved?

I’ve come to the conclusion that there is very little that will satisfy me, get me to anywhere near that idea of “contentment” that people talk about. I know I’ll never have happiness, so I set my sights lower. But even that goal seems completely unattainable. Again, I ask, what the fuck can be improved? I don’t know what I want, and for the first time in my life that really bothers me. If I don’t know what I want, I obviously can’t improve anything. This numbness is all-consuming. Every aspect of my life has been clouded over in its fog, leaving me feeling lost and empty. I don’t know anything anymore, and I hate it; it’s the worst feeling.

I’m always late to hear things, but the other day I discovered Anne Rice’s site (you know, the author), and was irrationally angry that she had gone from being an atheist most of her life back to being a Catholic like she was when she was young. Renouncing her books in a way, too, that was the moment where I instantly decided I didn’t like her anymore. You never condemn the past, especially one full of ideas that you nursed for so long…. There had to be a reason why you believed those things, it doesn’t just disappear! The truth is, I fear becoming like that. I fear giving up everything I am because I get tired of fighting a losing war. Complacency is unacceptable. If I ever become like that, lazy and tired of fighting, then I truly am something that deserves suffering, some sort of hell.

It all leads back to the question: what do I want? And the answer is there, it’s right there where it has always been. Before I die I want the world to know that I am not like them, that I don’t have to be this generic “unique” that everyone else is. I stand alone, all alone. They chastise me because they fear what I reflect back at them. My eyes are full of anger and hate, while theirs are full of “love” and complacency. I am everything they avoid being. Everything they were taught never to be. I may be weak and wretched, barely alive, but my words are stronger than theirs can ever be. All because I believe in them. I am not scared into faith like they are, and not just faith in God, but faith in others. I don’t require such things; my emptiness can never be filled by a God or another person, it can only be repaired and filled by myself.

God and love are band aids. People use them to cover over the spots that are empty. But that’s just it…the hole is still there, it is always there. That is why they fear dying, because they were never completed.

I want to finally gather the courage to pull all of my writing together, to make it into something…to make it worth something. Otherwise it will just rot and fade away like my body will. Everything would have been for nothing. I have to do it, somehow. I have to get the willpower, the drive to try, even if it means failing. I have to try.


You can’t fake a smile…or can you?

I feel at times as though there is something so incredibly wrong, something I just can’t seem to corner and intimidate into clarity. I know that I am supposed to be feeling things, to experience emotion, yet sometimes I can’t help but laugh at the thought of wanting to feel. The idea itself is foreign to my brain; it’s a piece that is not meant to be there. Yet I can’t rid myself of it…. It’s been implanted by every person I ever met, the way their lips twist upward in a show of…happiness, is it? You can’t fake a smile.

The real, genuine smile has been found to be just that: genuine. You can curve your lips just like a smile, and the best of the best can trick you into believing it’s real, but it is never the exact same muscle movement as the real thing. Scientific fact. Strange isn’t it? I guess that is so be expected from creatures who center their lives around other creatures for the intent of not only survival, but companionship. We were designed to feel, to be highly emotional, or so it is suspected.

Smiles don’t mean much to me anymore. They bore me with their falseness for myself when I use them and irritate me when I see them upon the faces of other people. I admit that I am a jealous person by nature; when I was young I was either the best friend or none at all. I couldn’t stand to be outdone, to not be held in the highest esteem by whoever’s attention I was in pursuit of. I broke myself of the habit when I realized the “attention” wasn’t all that worth having. But that jealousy, it still beats its tattered burnt heart somewhere in this shell of a body, but now it is only reserved for…other things.

Happiness is one of those things. There are only a very select few people in the world who don’t infuriate me in their happiness, and otherwise I don’t enjoy seeing people happy; it angers me that that is something I can’t acheive through means of self-torture or internal reflection. No amount of throttling to the soul will cause it to bleed such an emotion. I can beat it all I want, I can control everything I’d ever want, yet never will those more “cherished” emotions come into my grasp. Dark things don’t get to feel pleasure beyond whatever darkness gives, I suspect. We do choose who we are, no matter what is done to us, but I think a lot of the time the reality becomes so collapsed upon itself that we forget that we were the ones to make such a decision. It’s a whirlwind, and it won’t stop just because you have to make a choice; it keeps going, to hell with what you need.

I damaged myself. I hurt myself more than anybody ever could have hoped to. I feel it now, that overwhelming sense of my own desire for destruction, how far it went…. Too far, perhaps, it might be said. But no, not far enough, never far enough. Part of me wants to see this to the end…that delightful finish that would be a culmination of my weakest point and strongest. Weak because of giving in, strong for going through with it. It’s funny to me that the weakness I so loathe would be my final undoing, the only way to truly experience complete control over something…. I think that is what I look for: power. I want it more than anything after a life of playing the forgiving, albeit unwilling masochist. Always back for more, it seemed. Pathetic dog that knows nothing but a cruel touch, hates it, yet felt as though it couldn’t go on if there was no attention at all. And in the end it wasn’t all those people that killed me…it was myself. I was always the one to laugh at myself, to scathingly lash out at every little flaw…. I was above and beyond heartless, and still am. I lost whatever it was that is inside of everyone else. I stopped pretending to want other people in my life for any reason beyond selfishness, of getting something I wanted from them.

I keep no company but myself. No amount of sick pictures that I draw can emulate the feeling I feel toward myself. The hate. I keep asking, ‘just how stupid are you?’. People talk about being shy, or having a low self esteem. I’d like to give them a dose of what I feel, let them have a nice bitter taste…. It’s beyond words. It’s like being held underwater then pulled back up just before you pass out from breathing in water and trying desperately to hold your breath. Picture that over and over again…every time you get a breath…that’s one of those occasions where you don’t feel like breaking every mirror that was ever witness to your face and the soul behind it. But even then it is a feeling of, “Oh, you’re not so terrible a person. Just weak and exceptionally stupid.” And the air? It still hurts, burns your lungs, almost unwelcome compared to the blackness you would have gotten from passing out. It never stops. You are subjected to a life of near drowning in a black pool of everything that you never wanted to be.

It’s the smiles that I hate. It’s that physical reaction to a feeling inside that I am no longer capable of. My smiles are few and far between, and I’ve found that even those slight things brought on by my own sadistic reaction to some pitiful situation (real or imagined), feel all wrong when made with my mouth. It tingles afterward, and not in a good way. It’s skin stretched too far over crooked teeth, leaving behind faint lines for a few minutes that show the world my lack of self control. If I can’t stop a simple simle, I can stop nothing. As a consequence, I am nothing. I won’t smile anymore, except when the time comes where I am on public display being scrutinized, or am in the presence of my parents who still believe that I am perfectly okay, thank you very much. In the sanctity of my room I will not smile, because this physical reaction is just another unfortunate side-effect of being human. Human I am not. All of my emotions have become mechanical; the wiring is exposed and torn apart, unfixable. Broken. Just like every other part of me.

I don’t need a smile to remind me of everything in my life that I don’t have. If you ever catch a glimpse of such a thing know that it comes from the animal, that thing inside. Curved lips and barred teeth, a sign of my own hostility toward the world, and most of all…toward myself.

Stuff, stuff, and more stuff.

Another unintelligent, degrading post. Normal posting will resume…whenever I manage to find my sanity.

I guess one of the nicer aspects of someone going on a long trip, is that they often come back bearing presents. Lots of them. Like so many you don’t really know what you’re going to do with them all. I had to clear space to make room.

Already I am entering into blase mode. I’m just annoyed and resentful of my lost freedom, and consequently I’m already starting to feel like shit. I’ve resorted back to my typical grouchy, bossy self, you know the selfish, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-if-I’m-saying-something-that-hurts-your-feelings mood. It’s a good feeling, I guess, to be back to normal and not constantly be confused about what little emotion I do have. When people are around, I know what to expect from myself…when they’re not, I don’t know how I’ll react. And for someone so focused on control, not knowing is a damnable thing. But the fact that being alone took a weight off my shoulders—that tells me something. I grew to like the reckless feeling, not worrying about hurting myself or doing something strange; no one was there to see it.

My aunt went skull-crazy. She’s met me a few times and knows I like strange stuff, so she started collecting things for me a few months back—now I have quite the assortment of skull-themed things. I got a lot of older things from my mom, as she went to many yard sales and second hand stores that my cousin likes to frequent. My mom knows I like to tinker with old things and clean them up, so now I have an old lamp and a jewelry box to mess around with. The lamp has possibilities, and the jewelry box just had to be cleaned. I hated the lamp at first; it has a marble base, and the lamp itself was so filthy it looked more brown than gold (mom didn’t like it at all, but had kept it since my cousin only wanted the crystals off of it). I cleaned it up yesterday, and actually found that I do like it. I guess it grew on me after a few hours of carefully cleaning it. Now it’s golden, and interesting; it compliments another lamp I have. The marble base has to be covered though—I can’t stand it. Black velvet maybe….

I bleached my hair, which was…an experience. Anyone ever tell you that hair bleach smells TERRIBLE? Worse than some of the toxic hair dye I’ve used. I had to hold my breath while it was near my face because it kept choking me. I only did a section since I’m trying to grow my hair out and I’ve already bombarded it with chemicals the last few months fucking around with the color. I have a feeling if I had done my whole head my hair would have started breaking. I’m incredibly lucky it has put up with me this far. This year alone I’ve used 4-5 hair dye removers (which have a tendency to fry hair like McDonald’s french fries, to the point where you have to get the ends hacked off), countless different dyes, and now bleach, yet somehow my hair is still as shiny and strong as it ever was…. I don’t quite understand it. And lets just say, before my hair was stuck in “red” mode. My red hair just didn’t want to die. So I covered it with black hair dye…all the time. It was like the past didn’t want to die, so I just warred with it until it was finally beaten into submission. Then it was black. Then I decided I wanted it white. Enter the hair dye remover. And then the black decided it didn’t want to die…which actually pleased me more than I would like to admit. What did the bleach do? It didn’t really remove the black…it just gave me a white/blonde streak that is in toward my scalp…the hair in the middle is black…then the hair at the bottom…it’s red (this is all in one chunk of hair). Weird, isn’t it? I don’t really get how that all added up to equal cool…but somehow it did. Instead of running to the store to fix it, I’ve decided that red, white, and black go well together. And we all live in harmony…haha.

Let’s just face the facts: my hair is supposed to be black. If I had a “residual self image” my hair would be black even though I was born with it red. No matter what I do to my hair, I always go back to black because I can’t stay away for long…. That’s just the way it has to be. We all have an image of what we want to be in our head, and that sadist, she has black hair. Fuck the red. It started when I was fourteen and dyed it temporarily for Halloween…. Ever since it’s been a war between it being red (out of the sheer laziness of getting sick of dying it because it grows so fast), then dying it black. I’ve gone back and forth about 3 different times. Meaning: I had it completely back to red again (loads of hair dye remover), then a few months later dyed it black. All over again. After spending months getting it back to red. Yes, three times. I don’t know how I still HAVE hair. I have even less of an idea of how it still looks nice…. Don’t ask me why I’ve blathered about hair for the last two paragraphs, I have no explanation except that I haven’t written in a few days and feel deprived. I’m a hype when it comes to my writing. Just know that in a few months I’ll probably get tired of white/blonde+black+red, and I’ll dye my hair all over again. And if I do, who knows, there could be a miracle: I could tell you about it.

I went quading earlier. Got hit in the face with a bug. Somehow in managed to squeeze between the ONE space where skin is vulnerable between goggles and helmet. It hurt. I had to stop and let myself suffocate in a cloud of dust while I repeatedly slapped at my face. All hard things to do while wearing a helmet and goggles. Good times. I’m just glad there was no one to witness the moment.

Washed the cats—Salem hates me. He’s under my desk sleeping because he’s so tired from licking his fur for the last hundred hours.

Goodnight, I’m going to sleep.

Quasi-Heaven is only attainable in small increments. Then it fades away….

I feel like a crazy person. A numb, distant, sadistic crazy person, almost on the brink of normal…that is if normal includes “numb”, “distant”, and “sadistic”. Don’t know what I’m talking about? I hardly do. My mind is fluttering around like a damn humming bird. Trying to stay on one thought is like trying to control a ferret: damn near impossible. Ferret on crystal meth, no? I should know, I have a ferret…. Not important, but it does give my description merit. Anyway, on with the inevitable talking….

What’s wrong? Who knows. I haven’t really been asking myself lately or done any form of introspective thinking, as I’ve been preoccupied with many other things…. For one, I completely gave in to my desire to consume food…lots of food. Generally I constantly monitor what I’m eating (rather obsessively..I admit) But lately…oh…fuck. Eating. Everthing. Can’t. Stop. Eating. It’s like I opened the gate to paradise…and hell. I hate that I do it, yet I don’t have the will power to stop. And for once I’m allowing that to be the answer…I’ve become so lost in the pursuit of control that I haven’t been letting myself live. And with my beliefs…that is unacceptable. So, viola! Enjoy paradise for a few days kid; it isn’t going to last long.

Along with that, I said “fuck it” to everything else. I read all day long, I write shitty poetry and never post it, I draw horrible pictures and don’t give a shit…I neglect my journal, I stare into space of daydream for hours and hours a day…listen to music far too loudly, ignore the existence of the dog, ignore the fact that my hair looks like shit and needs to be dyed, ignore the fact that I HAVE the hair dye but am too lazy to use it, brush off the fact that I haven’t been getting regular exercise, pretend that I don’t actually need sunlight to survive (gotta love dark sheets that go over windows…), pretend that I’m dead so my cat won’t try to steal the blankets, pretend that email doesn’t exist, never answer the phone even when you hear it ring (and lie when anyone asks), skip to the naughtier sections of Juliette, watch BBC because it is entertaining, daydream about lobbing the heads off of irritating newscasters, and last, but certainly not least, forget that everything not only has a price, but a limit. You only get so much. Then, as all things do, the candle is snuffed out…and the light fades away. Forget that, wipe it from your useless memory and listen to my brainwashing: Everything is good. Everything lasts forever. Everything is good. Everything lasts forever….

You know that saying, “with absence the heart grows fonder” or some such equally stupid bullshit? Well, it’s not true. Never has been. I know it was meant for lovers, but I’m applying it to other people. My mom, for instance. She’s coming home…tomorrow. Honestly, talk about the WORST timing. It’s like God’s up there in his fluffy clouds laughing his ass off right now about my predicament. Bastard. I should sue…anyway…. What’s terrible is that I was just starting to feel…okay…for the first time in I don’t know how long. So long ago, I can’t remember. I was really starting to think that maybe I was beyond salvation from the constant, nagging depression, and that even being alone had somehow lost its power for soothing me. But no. I felt…alright today. I wasn’t dreading the day, or worrying about what I had to do. Is this what normal people feel like? Well, you know, minus the whole loner issues, the sadism, and lack of giving a shit (meaning: absence of feelings). Haha. It’s sad that a day where I don’t focus on dying is a day that can be deemed “good”. Apparently for me that’s as good as good gets.

There’s hell for you. Apparently Sephiroth lives there….

I’ve been going outside the last few days, burning through fuel like crazy on my ATV, forgetting for just a few pleasant hours that there is a place called “home”, or a life that I hate that I am expected to return to. Paradise looks a lot like hell. Ugly, deformed, spindly trees line the small trails, while dispersed throughout are weed-like shrubs that seem never-ending. In the summer it’s like being in a desert with trees—high desert—I suppose it it called. The dust chokes, filling the air so extensively that it is impossible to see. It coats the lungs, covers the clothes. Dirt is beautiful. My hair, shiny and black when I left the house, comes back with me as a dull grey, fibrous like a horses mane from the clouds of dust. Sometimes I go to sleep without washing it, just for that great second where I turn my head on my pillow at night and catch the scent of oil and gasoline. It’s like a goddamned aphrodisiac. I always laughed when I heard people say such things, but now I understand. It’s my silent reminder that there can be times in my life that aren’t a struggle I didn’t choose, times where I live for the challenge, and where I can put thoughts aside for a time…even if it is limited. It’s times like that that remind me of what could be, were I able to coax a little bit of willpower out of myself.

Paradise? Looks like it to me. I like a place with some mystery. Not my picture, by the way, or my forest. If the forest I wandered in looked like that, I might die from sensory overload.

Anyway, mom’s coming home, like I said. I finally feel…not horrible, and back she is again, and I’ll be trapped for another year in a house that I can’t escape. No time alone. Inevitability. I know now that my naivete in believing that happiness is possible, was a stupid one. The best I will ever get is mediocre, or “not horrible”. But even that pathetic gift comes at a steep price, one that I regret everyday I am forced to attend school and pretend that I care.

That is the way of things, I guess.

Neediness: what it means.

Everyone I see has someone beside them, and the need to relate, to be loved, so on and so forth. Some can’t be longer than a few weeks without being involved with someone, or being in contact with their friends.

People with illusions, that is all it is. Something whispers to me that they fear being alone above all else. Being lonely is almost something I don’t understand anymore, as I haven’t felt it in a very long time. It is a curious thing to me that someone once uttered the words, “no one can exist alone”. I had a very heated argument with one person that proved my own point (though they didn’t realize it) that people have a irrational, almost unexplainable fear of being alone. The person stubbornly insisted “it isn’t possible, it can’t be done”, then claimed that I was a liar who was tryingto make people interested in me. I couldn’t help but laugh at the petty attempt at attack. People have a tendency to do that when you breach a subject that makes them uncomfortable, they turn the attack on you, justifying their own reasoning by displacing the blame from themselves. Suddenly you’re the enemy who is revealing their neediness, their dependence, something most people can’t handle being reminded of. We are, after all, a society focused on pseudo “independence” on a personal basis.

I do believe it is entirely possible to stamp out the original human inclination for companionship and friendship. Sure, for some people it’s near impossible. They’re like those chihuahuas at the pound, you know the ones who get ‘depressed’ according to staff members, all because they aren’t having regular human contact. But it wouldn’t be all that difficult. People live in remote locations for years and do just fine. The real issue here is that neediness is not only something natural, but something produced.

The point of life, according to most goes in just about this order (rearrange if necessary):

1. Date. If it takes 100 tries, it take 100 tries.
2. Get married and get a house.
3. Fuck constantly.
4. Pop out a few offspring.
5. Raise said offspring.
Now the children repeat steps 1-5.

Do you see what I mean? The entire idea of family is sold not only to perpetuate society, but to cause stagnation and lack of revolt. It’s the ultimate pacifier. Just get everyone tired from having sex and giving birth so that they forget that there are things they don’t like. It’s to keep people from getting depressed from the realization that yes, someday they are not only going to die, but during death they will be alone. There is no cure for that except handing out a placebo to make them believe they’re getting treated.

We’re trained to be needy, to want to help and be accepted by others because this again, not only perpetuates society, but gives us all a sense of camaraderie that alleviates the lurking loneliness. You have now, not only kids that are related to you (and likely will be easier to relate to), but a spouse to listen to your bitching and make you feel nice and special and vent frustration.

Perhaps this blog is my spouse.

Neediness is stupidity, plain and simple. And if I haven’t made it clear before, I’ll say it again: Stupidity is absolutely preventable, and as such is unacceptable to any extent. Neediness causes people to make foolish mistakes, to lose sense of self, and not only that…it’s goddamned degrading. Any species that prances around claiming superiority obviously should have needy as low on the list of epidemics as is possible.

Unfortunately this seems to be something EVERYBODY suffers from. And let’s not get into how they like it.

Ugly on the inside.

More poetry from me. Laziness and a lack of concern prevent me from genuinely giving a shit whether or not any of it makes sense or even flows well together. Sorry. I just want to write, and I don’t care about what. I’m impatient as hell when it comes to poetry; I just like it because I can leave esoteric thoughts without explanation.

Losing definition
A place where there seems to be no such thing
Blurs, fuzzy edges
I need a new prescription for my mind
Holes through everything
That’s the only piece of clarity
My mistakes, my flaws…
They are all I can see.


Useless, forgotten
Granted dreams I never wanted
Losing sense of sanity, I crumble
Yet it is in insanity that the world’s words dull to a mumble
Only now do my own dreams become clear
Now I can see my true reflection in the mirror
The loss of distortions
Hate has made “just kill yourself” a personal mission
Each lie makes inclination stronger
Internally I struggle to live a little longer
Now I live to fight the monster
Silence in my mind will tell me when there is a martyr
I must select a side
Damn the voices that try to drown me in black tide…
Even in death I am the bloody battleground.

I’m very tired. I spent the night having nightmares. One in particular, my only friend, my cat, got hit by a truck…along with some made up friend in the dream. Fuck the friend, I went straight for my cat and picked him up. He was barely breathing, and I could feel some of his ribs pushed downward inside, crushing him beneath his black fur. He was really hurting…and I had the thought of putting him out of his misery (which ALWAYS happens in those types of dreams for me; I kill something to prevent further suffering, a lot like I want to do to myself). Then I woke up, went back to sleep and had another nightmare about being raped. Oh thank you for the break, wonderful mind of mine! I thoroughly enjoyed your sick fucking joke. Go to hell. Even in dreams it won’t break me.

Numb to everything.

It’s strange to me that feeling nothing is so much more difficult than feeling something. On occasion it can become torturous to be in such a state, to the point where I do or think of unpleasant things purposely to attempt to get myself to react. I get a bit put off by the numbness; it forces me to think of myself more as a machine than a living, breathing being. I’m so tightly, painfully controlled, that I forget sometimes that I do it to myself when the situation calls for it. The rest of the time it is out of my control, untouchable, but then when something goes wrong…suddenly I choose to hit the switch. I talk about this constantly because I can’t get it off my mind, and because there is no one but me to wonder over the ‘why’ behind it all.

On average it takes ten minutes for me to get angry over something. Unless it is a direct threat, my reactions are terribly sluggish and short-lived. Yes, my anger, my only friend, abandons me constantly. I don’t know if I’m going to feel it when I should, or not feel it altogether. I loathe the realization that my actions/reactions are as unpredictable as a a coin tossed into the air; my mood does as it pleases, and it can go one of two ways, but I never know which. It makes me feel reckless, out of control…even a little crazy. How can you not know how you’ll respond? I’ve been me for long enough now, I should know by now, yet I don’t. But I did, I used to know. But like everything else, the shift in me rendered it all useless information.

It’s only recently that I discovered that I can control the numbness to an extent, how I can use it as a weapon or a shield if I just gather enough anger to pull it all off. And that’s the problem, the getting angry enough part. Even when I do manage to get myself into a state of mind capable of switching me over, it can only be done for a very short time. It’s not long before that voiceless thought says to me, You think you can control this, you think you are good enough, strong enough?  Flashes of bad memories. Flashes of people I don’t want to remember. Flashes of me at points of humiliation. Self hate. All-consuming. And sometimes it’s so strong that I back down because I’m so mentally exhausted from fending it all off, of repeatedly shouting at myself to shut the fuck up. I break down and let it win, let it make me suffer, all because I’m too weak to fight it. Let it play the memories for hours on end, let it deprive me of sleep, because sometimes that’s better than having to summon enough feeling to care that I’m hurting myself. I fight everyday, I get better, yet at the same time I feel something inside progressively withering away, weakening from the constant pressure. It wants to snap, fold, give way to a power better than itself because it is sickened from all the fighting.

I seek a peace I will never have. I know that there will always be a stuggle until I pick a side. I’ve always been the type to stick to middle ground rather than facing a decision head on. I feel like I lose options if I make a choice. The one thing I do like: open options. Let it beat me into submission, let it tear me apart…maybe I deserve it for all those times I was an idiot and helped others instead of helping myself. I deserve it for being so stupid and caring, allowing the world to decide how I think about myself, concerning myself over their every whim. All the while it said I made a mistake…and that I’d pay dearly for it…forever.

Suffer an eternity below me,
Spread your legs like the world’s whore
Do what they say, forget what you think
You are your own worst memory
It’s too bad you’re alive
But it’s not too bad that you have to die
Accept me, or take a dark fate
These wounds I inflict will never heal

I think that was the fastest I’ve ever written a poem. It’s almost shocking that I knew so well what I wanted to say…. I always felt like in every friendship, I’ve always given so much but never gotten even a small amount of it back. Unwaveringly loyal, that is me. But most of all…I am completely and totally unforgiving, even of myself.

P.S. I found some post cards on the table this morning, which apparently my mom has been sending since the beginning of her trip, but I never read since my dad never told me about them. When I picked them up I felt a twinge of something…maybe caring? But it disappeared instantaneously. She’s been gone almost 2 months, yet I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t bring myself to care about anything. It hurts to be like this…. I can’t love, I can’t care. I can’t be anything but a hollow, lifeless thing. And the worst part is…I doesn’t matter to me.