• Christmas day, Has been absolutely fucking wonderful so far. Christmas eve, not so great, the rage, the sadness, the apathy. Almost as bad as Tuesday nights’. I gave up, went to bed. Woke up on Christmas day, earlyearly, sat outside with lucas playing guitar, staring out over the city. It was good, I got tickets, to go to Canberra, to see the exhibition; Monet, Van Gogh. Im excited. Tickets to cats. Vouchers for art supplies. Vintage suitcases, Siamese fighting fish and bells. Yeah goodday. Best Christmas in years. Even dads family wasn’t too bad. Ah. I fukcing lie. It was the sameoldsameold shit they put us through ever year. And now, late night cravings of self destruction. Watching little fish, reading a million little pieces. Those movies, these books, the music, the art, All revolving Around self destruction, around hitting rock bottom. Im tryingto hold off, I want it though. I want the alchohol, I want to be so offmy face that nothing registers, that im out of control. The freedom. Somehow, for some reason, that fuckedup shit rings true. Its what I seek solace in, even though iv never been the biggest drinker, even though I don’t do drugs, But it’s the self destruction, it’s the rage, the need, the want to explode out of your fucking body, out of your mind. That’s what I feel. Reading a million little pieces, its like someone took all the fucking thoughts out of my head, and wrote it down. If everyone could read it, they could understand. They could get to know the monster.

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