Jul 22, 2006 21:42
The skin on my shoulders is peeling. It is truly the summer of my twenty-fifth year. I am living in picturesque Victoria suddenly as well. I have felt more sorry for myself in the past, but now I'm dry-heaving it up. There may perhaps be nothing left. I don't know whywhywhy and I never will need to.
Or do I? I think I need to sit with a hot towel soaked in a strange herbal liquer and think about what I have done. I feel filthy inside. Broken. Broke. So full of promises like the supersweet ichor fulminating from a sun-stroked fruit. I wish I could die.
I'd probably take pills if I wanted attention.
I'd overdose on street drugs if I were serious, like a dog that wanders away from home when it goes to die.
I so need to want to fully need a cigarette.
The hardest part of working towards a goal is working. I feel like I am lucky because other people have had it far worse. Fuck all of you bitches, this is how hard it is for me - My life - My shit. I revel in it. If I honestly believed in past lives I'd say that the whole previous set-up is some presently subconscious goal to anticlimax. Fuck. Later on I'll scream with my eyeballs at this outburst. Could be months.