IT DIED. AND I LET IT GO. I'm too spent to do victory laps.

What will it take for me to give this up?
I will be branded with the symbol of something I only have half a heart in. Fight for the privilege to live reckless, or for the privilege to live hopeless. Six of one, half a billion of the other. WASTE.

There are pieces - more like chunks - of me that will be with you, indefinitely. Some of them you took, and some of them I gave. Feel free to stomp all over these parts of me; I can't feel them anymore.



Shit's sadder than a trash bag filled with party cake.

Having non-enemies tell you -in so many words- that your personality will compensate for your appearance in regards to your romantic life is only slightly preferable to being...
A) Cleat-kicked in the throat.
B) Designated Unpleasant TaskMaster.
C) Verbally shit on and emotionally assfucked by the people you thought knew better.
D) All of the above. Seventy-sevenfold.

I use a coping mechanism to cope with my coping mechanism. If there's anything worse than the word "perfection," it's acting as if your job is to "live" as its semihuman antonym.


You can't have what's left of my forever.

I don't know what makes me less deserving of her "love"; the fact that I wake up every morning with the intention of hurting her, or that I am fixated on destroying the life she has given me. Tough call.

The repetition. Sleep ____ sleep. The part between these two events is so worthless the usage of a word cannot be justified.

When you stop feeling close to those you have been death-gripping for so long, you have achieved the highest(lowest) status self-absorbed isolation offers. I hope it comes with a crown and sash.

Once, everything was painful.
Now, nothing is painful.

Everything feels like nothing.


Have fun getting fisted by someone else's upper hand.

You're really just a trash can full of positivity. I hate you more than anything in the world.

It all becomes a game of solitaire. Play against yourself, chance, and time. Shuffle and repeat. Shuffle and repeat.

What's one more fucking regret? Another year of misery?
A drop in the bucket. 365 reasons to change, but none of them are ever good enough.



HTML. HFCS. LIGAF.

Entering final phase of life suckage: complete emotional destruction.

You fuck up and wake up and get up and change.
You fuck up and fuck up and fuck up and die.



I'm growing a rat tail.

Prepare for the shitstorm ahead.

I'm chicken-shitting out on her. The transcripts I requested were never sent. Six dollars in overdue book fees saved me and all the security and comfort I will ever have. A handful of people. My anchor and my wings.

A PSA for you and yours: Go ahead and get your dick sucked. Just leave me the fuck out of it.



Ride to meet your fate. Your destiny awaits.

I will be 19. And I will have wasted a full three years.
Three years on this bullshit. Three years on you. Three years on everything that means nothing.
I was a nobody, then. And I'm a dead body, now. *AcHiEvEmEnT*

Relocation. A kamikaze mission disguised as a fresh start. My plane will still go down in flames, it will just be two and a half hours away from its initial projected point of impact.

Here is the hour, minute, second when you become fully aware that you are being completely phased out of your own life. You are irrelevant, and several other people are now in possession of what was once yours. And you are given the choice between a lifesaver and a fucking brick as an act of mercy. And you choose both.




Who in the fuck would let you do that? Orange County would.

Please take this actual knife out of my actual hands.
Please put this piece of food onto my plate.
Please do not acknowledge the monster I have become.
Please don't let me do this.
Please don't let me do this.
Please don't let me do this.
I wish things had been different, every minute of every day. And now you know - even if you never read this.

My joy set sail today. I stood on the shore, and waved it goodbye.



Fuck.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Or it fucks you for life, and destroys all your hopes and dreams.

I would like to address all the people I am currently fucking over, and inform them that it's TOUGH FUCKING TITTY. Build a bridge, get over it, and learn to keep it to your fucking self. When there aren't enough double zeros or Carvel cakes left in the world to make it worth one more day, come and let me know. We'll load our bullets together.

For a painfully long stretch of time, you were inclined to think that what was hurting you was a wound that had been inflicted by whomever had stood the closest. Your own hands, however, have been those at your ankles all along. You have been dragging yourself deeper since the day you let go of everything else. The ones you love have gripped you by the wrist as tightly as they could, but you were inexhaustibly steadfast. And so you were released.
Your recognition of their innocence will come in time. You will forgive them for their care, concern, perseverance, and loyalty. They should have fought you, instead of some intangible force. Another fucking metaphor wrapped up in clothing labels and empty Pop Tart boxes.


"You'll learn to love again. I never forgot."

135. 120. 116. 112. 98. 87. 80. 103. 95. 100. 85. 99. 100. ? .
Add and subtract. It's just a game I play, when I want to say, "Fuck you."

Sometimes, I still like to pretend that I have a future outside all of this. And then I remember that this is my personal best. Sub-par takes work. You have to keep one foot firmly planted in the shithole you've dug for yourself, and the other stomping down all the trash that keeps trying to fill it up. Just keep emptying it out; eventually, garbage will give up on you, too.

You will be a void. And nothing will ever be big enough to fill you. So you might as well eat the world.



I am so fucking hungry.

My penance for this will involve your car windows and a sawed-off.

I'm happy you got fat. I appreciate it, even if you are forty and married. I think about only two things...ever. The mania is real. I love you very much, but I can't stop abusing you. I treat every day like a fashion show, because I can. I live my life inside my head. I never went back. The plans I make for those big M&M cookies never materialize- I'm just full of shit. I worship the digital platform. You will never understand; I will never explain. Thanks for feeding my pride and vanity. I use more artificial sweetener than I care to mention. I met your mom.


Fuck your floorshow. Mine has twice the sequins and three times the carnage.

ENDOMORPHY. Live big and fall hard.
It's safe to say I will never be an RD. The coursework looks like fucking astrophysics. I would rather give it up than attempt and fail. I prefer my life to be consistently full of absolute bullshit self-defeation. It's kinda my thing.
Breakdown. I'm throwing myself a party over it, laden with phosphoric acid-laced beverages and highlighted with the burning of a million Caltrate bottles. xXoldladycoreXx

There will be a day when you won't recognize what's going on as your problem. You will view it as if it isn't real, and you will know this is wrong. But you won't care anymore.
You spent your concerns on what is already gone.



I'm not happy. I'm just batshit crazy.

The little pink box that was stashed in my closet. Even I'm impressed at how crafty I was at 16. It was kindof like Christmas when I found it.
It's fucking apples and oranges. The maquillage of defiance, the decoration of false confidence. I could cut you down, but what difference would it make. You're negative space, like a vacuum. You only exist in theory and rhetoric. Fake as fuck, and just as ignorant. I've signed my resignation.
If one more fucking person decides to poke their ass in on my business, corrective surgery will be needed to fix their mangled face. I hope they all get donut-fucking fat, and that they drown in their river of tears. You can't downtalk through broken teeth and Pop Tarts.
I'll prolly end up going back on. It's a little merit badge on my vest of issues. If anything, I'd prefer to see some sort of ending to this somewhat miniature life-apocalypse.

Tell me what to swallow.

Note to self: Stop being honest all together.
Husky Red Razor.
The past is the present is the future is forever. What was I holding out for? Surely not something better.
I'm suffocating. If I grow anymore volatile or enraged, I'm going to fucking spontaneously combust. You can toast marshmallows.

At this point, I'm only really doing it because it's what I deserve. Punishment. An enabler. An excuse to behave badly.

I'd pity you if I had any that wasn't being wasted on myself.



I miss her.

People are scum. Shit-fucking scum. Nothing will ever get better. Life leaves me no choice.
Yesterday marked one year. And I have nothing to show for it, apart from an even more addictive habit and a fuckload of some really intense rage and resentment.
I will never forgive you. All the days of my life.
Everything was riding on this change. My happiness, my hope, my future, my faith in shit finally going my way. But in reality, it's all the same.
I could nurture this, or smash it to pieces. And I'll choose the latter, every fucking time.
Fuck you. I'll rain on my own goddamn parade if I want to. And should you feel the need to intervene, then be aware that I can decimate your life just as easily as I can decimate my own.
What do I have to lose? Some bullshitty, useless, emotional-garbage?
As if any of it even made a difference.


Jugs and chugs.

I've stopped. Lexashit was just too much for me to deal with. I'd rather be full of hate and rage than full of hurt and loss. Shame is shame, so I might as well do what I want.

I don't have the heart for it. Fuck everybody, and fuck your help. Who gets me through when I relive the soul-raping pain? I DO. Who'll fight on when I'm knee-deep in the shit? I WILL.
And who can see the good in all this supposed "bad"? I CAN.

People are worthless. I hope you all die in a fire. And your judgment, morals, philosophies, and notions are just as shit as your lives are. FAIL AND FUCK OFF, fuckasses. I hope it's killing you inside, every goddamn day. I hope it eats your souls, and leaves you as empty as I am.

The failure is not my own, the success is not my own, but the two combined make me.

It's all the same.

Fuck effort. It's quitting time once again, and shitfire am I relieved. I am now free to be fully absorbed into a previous existence, in which I survived and thrived despite opposition and genuine risk.

I refuse to consider the consequences of my choices, because the term "consequence" implies that some sort of wrong is being committed. I will not acknowledge my actions as such, and will therefore refer to their outcomes as "results." Delicious, albeit frowned upon, results.

Fuck off, better judgment, I'm sure I'll be no worse off without you. The show no mercy, take no prisoners, no-holds-bar, auto-pilot parts of myself are fed up with the bullshit and tired fucking lies that have been consistently fed to me for who knows how long. Two years, as it turns out, will not be the length of my war. I've got a game face for every battle ahead.

Hit me back. I fucking dare you.

The fossilized remains of some former life, way back when I was still afraid to shit-sling and kick up the dirt.

Then the section where I had to BEAT the haters off, and plowed the path for my own self-destruction.

My savior and my suicide. And what is its value...as ambiguous as it is necessary, I suppose.

7 weeks fucking wasted.
A turn for the worst, and back at Square One.
Resentment, anger, exhaustion, and so on and so forth.
I've stopped trying to understand.
I'm just kind of empty.

One week until 17. Well fuck my shit.
Another year of existence, another year's worth of bloody reputations left in my wake. Made a lot of people of sorry, made a lot of people cry, made enemies, made shit happen, and just generally made a scene like a true fucking bitch. I hope it takes decades in therapy to suppress the emotional scarring I inflicted on all those shitbags who stepped to me. I put my game face on this year, and educated myself to reality.
If anything, my survival and upheaval just proves that I am inhumanly fucking strong.