Wednesday, Feb. 16, 2005
8:15 p.m.
<< [ Honey Nut Cheeri-os ] >>
The details don't matter as long as I'm still in pain.
No matter what I say, it's typical, it's been done before. Let's try this on for size -- I'm convinced I'm subconsciously doing this for attention.
What now? What the fuck do you say to that?
Okay, so, my dad hits me. My parents fight. I can count on one hand the number of people on this planet that I love. I'm maladjusted, I'm ugly, and I'm way too intelligent to be dealing with my peers.
What's your fucking point?
I can list tradgedies until I'm fucking blue in the face, but it doesn't change anything. It doesn't justify anything. I don't get to say, "I didn't get anything for my sweet sixteen, therefore, it's okay that I'm drinking," or "My close friend of six years abandoned me so it's okay if I cut," because really, it's not. It's not the reason I'm doing any of it. Why am I doing it, then? Attention? I thought it was attention, for the longest time, but I don't value attention because it's worthless. I can get all the attention I want by walking outside naked, or by killing someone. I don't have to be fucked up to get attention.
I think this is just my attempt at defining myself. I think this is me being so human it's disgusting. I think this whole being a teenager thing is just one big contest to see who can be more fucked up, who has more scars, who has more deep dark secrets.
It doesn't really matter though, so long as I've got my daily dose of hurt to keep me sedated.