two-hundred & sixty-seven.
Last night, I dreamt my uncle was giving me up to the police for fraud, and I felt betrayed so I locked myself away in the basement. My mother had disappeared. But she appeared to me in Robert Sean Leonard's body, so I strapped him to the floor oven burning coals and skinned him to perform what looked like a Silent Hill ritual. And then I wanted to die from the intense betrayal I felt, even after after my uncle had carved me a heart to put into my skinned mother's not-body, like it was Frakenstein, so after he left I proceeded to cut my wrist into ribbons with a razor, which is what I use. My skin actually hung in ribbons around my wrist, so much so that it looked like bracelets. I left the basement nonchalantly, expecting no one to notice. Or care.
The intention is there. My subconscious acknowledges it. But it also acknowledges that I have too much self-control, and while I want to die, I will never find the courage to -- even in dreams.
Got a bullshit letter from the loan service. Keep forgetting to take my meds twice a day. Feel sore. All in all, a wonderful start to the day.
ETA: And then I dreamt of serial killers. Nice.