April 18, 2002 :: 9:29 p.m.
I'm a human fucking supernova
I am not well. Depressed would, I suppose, be the right word to use. And I don't know why. Rather, I do know why, I just don't know
why, you know? How absurd. I just the same word to mean two different things. Olympics olympics? *sigh* I'm upset about things that I shouldn't be upset about, things that my mind has twisted to mean something that they really don't, things that aren't even fucking things. I just want to destroy things right now. I want to break glass and punch holes in my walls and shatter bones. Not mime. Someone else's, someone I don't even know; it doesn't matter who. I want to turn my frustration into something tangible, into pain, into violence, and just get it all out. What I really need is a fucking punching bag, because sometimes I scare myself. I truly believe that if I was mad enough, I could really hurt someone. Badly. I'm not a person of incredible size or strength, but fuck it all if I don't have the worst temper of anyone I've ever met.
I painted earlier, but didn't make me feel any better. That whole painting as therapy bullshit is precisely that (bullshit) with me. I can't paint. I'm not good at it, and trying to channel my emotions onto canvas only serves to remind me of how embarrassingly inept I am with a paintbrush. The only thing I can do well with a paintbrush is put my hair up. So instead of making me feel any less like shit, it just made me feel a lot more like a talentless slob than I did before. Hurray for art therapy.
Sometimes I wish I'd kept this thing a secret. I really don't care that my friends (all two of them) read it, but because I know they do I don't write all of what I'd like to at times. Like now. There are things I'd like say that I can't - well, I can, but I won't. All these irrational fears and petty jealousies that I won't go into because I don't want Adam to know what a complete and total fucking nutjob I am. I mean, I'm sure he knows to some degree, but writing it down is different, more real. I was thinking about just starting another paper journal to write about that shit, but somehow I don't think I will. I never write in paper journals. They're too pretty, and once I write something it's there forever, no matter how ugly it is. I guess I sort of like the voyeuristic aspect of this type of journal, too. I'm not just talking to myself, I'm talking to people, but while I'm typing I forget about that. If I could talk to people in real life like that - forget that I'm talking to an actual person, forget about the unflattering opinion they're forming in their mind as I speak - I'd be all for it. As it is, I don't communicate very well because I can't forget that there really is someone there, listening to me. Besides, I break down a cry like a baby under pressure, or when I'm nervous or depressed or even angry, and it's hard to talk things out when one side of the conversation can't stop blubbering long enough to form a coherent sentence.
Fuck me. Just fucking fuck me. I am not happy with myself at all right now. I'm not happy with anyone, even though no one's done anything to me. I just want every single star in the galaxy to supernova (yes, that means the sun, too) so that the last thing I see before I die is a sky full of brilliant popping lights. Like a million cameras memorializing the collective look of desperation on this planet's face.
And it's only 10:00. Fan-fucking-tastic. You know, I think I overused the word fuck in this entry. Blah.
back & forth
Wait, there's more!
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Mr. Postman delivers the good stuff - March 18, 2005
when everything is bad - March 16, 2005
of fruits and menstruation - March 15, 2005