I scare people, they don't wanna hear it. They dont want to know, even if they ask. I'll never see you again and it won't mean anything to you but I'm going to be missing you for months. Or not at all. It's hard to say, because my humanity is just a bet. I feel everything violently or not at all with no in between. Get away while you can, because I only ever cry for myself, it's all about me, I deserve the best, the most, all. I love myself to diefication and yet somehow still violently hate myself. I'm a hedonist that doesn't deserve to eat. My hands and wrists are bony and I look at them with their bracelets and rings and I hate that I have a human form because it's all i will ever truly care about. ME, ME, ME, ME. I don't love myself back. 

The devestating truth is that some people complete themselves. You may feel like something is missing but nothing humanity has to offer can fill that empty space. People will try but even the most determined person will get tired of staring into eyes that act as a mirror instead of a window. It does make you feel inhuman after a while. Subhuman. 

Every single time I see my mom she finds some new way to insult me... Yesterday I saw her after work and she started going on about how I look "gaunt"... I guess it's out of love but there probably would've been a nicer way to say something than a lecture about how I'm no longer attractive. To be honest, I think I look better than I ever have. People think it's weird that I don't want much social interaction but I entertain myself more than anyone else ever has. I certainly attract myself more than anyone else ever has. I don't know how to describe it without sounding pyschotic but sometimes when I look in the mirror it's like there's more than just me there. Or maybe more like there is both I and me, and we're in love. Hmmm... I'm starting to remind myself too much of buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs, I need to go take a walk or something.

Something finally fucking happened in my life after 2 years of stir crazy boredom

My alternating fits of narcissism and self loathing are as present as ever. I am in deep romantic love with myself half the time, and the other half is spent thinking up ways to be someone different than me. It's like I'm in a volatile relationship with my own visage. Either way, I want to fuck myself.

My younger self would hate my guts, I hate my younger self, it's tiring to be a new person every two years. I've become things I said I never would, done things I shouldn't have had to do, and lived to see things I wanted to miss. And, in about a year and four months, I'll be someone else, having abandoned this current personality. I wonder what my new favorite color will be.  

I wish I could just learn to get the fuck over things, because when am I not nauseated and on the brink of some sort of episode? When am I not making people miserable with my unhappiness? 

I'm about 99% sure that my mother saw me with this girl I met about 2 weeks ago. I've talked to her since and she hasn't said anything so I think she must want to ignore it and pretend it didn't happen, either that, or she thinks what happened to me as a kid turned me lesbian and she feels too awkward/guilty/embarrassed to confront me about it. I'd be a little more worked up about this if I wasn't half in love and on a steady stream of dosage increases. It's actually a little bit funny, I'm sure seeing her youngest daughter giving head to a butch lesbian nearly gave her an arrhythmia. As it is there's been some eye contact issues. 

I'm not sure why I still lie so much about it. One day someone will know without me telling them. Everybody back home stills calls me crazy, which used to hurt a lot worse until 4 different psychiatrists and therapists told me it was pretty much true. You just can't get as hurt by an insult you know to be true. I'm cold and distant? True. Talking to me gives patient people headaches? True. My writing is such shit it borders on unreadable? True. I'm the biggest liar since my own goddamn father? Yeah. If I never did anything I didn't think I was good at I'd never do anything at all. I've spent my life trying to tell people something without saying it out loud, I can't be more honest with myself than shithouse metaphors and similes allow.

There are holes in my body. Big, gaping chasms in my heart, as wide as a quarter across and as deep as a pocket knife blade; what look like gopher holes in the flesh of my brain. An indescribably large pit in my intestines, and, believe it or not, 5  little valleys the size and shape of fingers on my right bicep. They all beg to be filled in, sewn back together, glued, tied, anything. Some of them came like a crack in a windshield, one of them came like a knife through soft butter. I think that one is bottomless. I like to ignore them but sometimes what isn't there hurts worse than what is.