Tweet
Happiness depresses me. There’s nearly no line between happiness and depression, I think. Strong emotions all feel alike: like I’m out of control.
Am I out of control?
I smoke a lot of weed because it keeps me insane.
I hate noise. I hate people. I want to be alone. I’m victimized by depression. I want to be alone so I can have everything to myself. I hate sharing, but I do it anyway because I hope it makes me seem like I have morals. I wish I had morals. Someone once told me style is more important than morality. Do I have style? I don’t think I do. Mike has style.
Style is insanity, it can only be measured subjectively. I measure me subjectively. Not subjectively, submissively, and everyone I’ve ever dated measured me submissively.
I wish I was never raped.
I don’t remember it, but I do. I was 14 and had no friends. I was 13, actually, and I was in love. I wonder if Mike did it? I didn’t meet him until I was 15. Or 14, I was 14. I can’t remember anything if I don’t talk about it. I was never raped, but you don’t have to tell me that.
I fall in love all the time, I don’t know how to be without it. I don’t have any morals. I think being in love will keep me from murdering. I love watching shows about murderers and rapists because I was never murdered, but I was raped when I was 12. No, I was 13, definitely 13. Mike did it.
Truth is insanity , it can only be measured subjectively. I don’t even think it exists.
My father died when I was 4, but he still walks around the house like his heart beats. My mom never died and I don’t think she will. She’s too busy drowning in misery to be dead. Am I living in misery?I can’t see differences between misery and happiness and existence.
If you’re dead, do you exist? My sister doesn’t exist cause she was never born. They just cut her out and dumped her in something that got sent to somewhere. I never had one sister, but I have three. My brother only has one sister, but he has four; and I have a brother, my only brother. He lies, but I like him anyway. I like him because he lies like me.
No one knows me because my personality is pudding.
I want the world to love me.
Mike doesn’t love me, he never did, but he still says he does because that’s what boyfriends do. I had this boyfriend once, and he really did love me, but I ran away to Los Angeles because I loved him, too. Music lies, you need a lot more than love. Love keeps me nearly human though, so I guess I’ll keep doing it.
I’ve never been one for logic, but in 8th grade I was raped and took a shower and threw away clothes cause it never happened, so how could I have been wearing something and why would it be smeared with blood?
Those clothes never existed. They’re in a dump somewhere. Do dumps exist? They hold all these things that get thrown away, and if you can’t fInd it it doesn’t exist, at least that’s what that DMV lady said. She said I should get my driver’s license, and I said no.
I’m terrified of driving.
Once, I was in this car with this boyfriend who loved me and he nearly drove us dead. But he didn’t, and instead I got out of his car and walked home to take a shower and throw away clothes. My father didn’t notice because he died when I was 4. No one ever notices anything anyway.
I ride on trains between thoughts.
When I was 18 I rode on trains to my future and I couldn’t stop laughing because everyone knows there’s nowhere a no-one can get good. I stopped laughing because those trains got dark and everyone’s face was faceless. My face was faceless, too.
Mike asked me once if I was afraid of him and I said no, but he knew I was lying. Sometimes he says “do you love me?” and I say “yes” and he says “okay” and we have tea and keep going like that’s all there is to it. But that isn’t all there is, because he’s supposed to love me, too.
The only person who loves me is my sister I don’t have.
If I had one word or two I’d give it to you, but all I have is memories that aren’t mine, and clothes that never fit and never cover what I want them to, and mothers who can’t see past eyes, and brothers who love stories more than they love you, and sisters who blame you for not being sisters, and this boyfriend who loved you once, and boys and men named Mike who don’t know if you’re faceless, and fathers who died when you were four.
Am I out of control?
I smoke a lot of weed because it keeps me insane.
I hate noise. I hate people. I want to be alone. I’m victimized by depression. I want to be alone so I can have everything to myself. I hate sharing, but I do it anyway because I hope it makes me seem like I have morals. I wish I had morals. Someone once told me style is more important than morality. Do I have style? I don’t think I do. Mike has style.
Style is insanity, it can only be measured subjectively. I measure me subjectively. Not subjectively, submissively, and everyone I’ve ever dated measured me submissively.
I wish I was never raped.
I don’t remember it, but I do. I was 14 and had no friends. I was 13, actually, and I was in love. I wonder if Mike did it? I didn’t meet him until I was 15. Or 14, I was 14. I can’t remember anything if I don’t talk about it. I was never raped, but you don’t have to tell me that.
I fall in love all the time, I don’t know how to be without it. I don’t have any morals. I think being in love will keep me from murdering. I love watching shows about murderers and rapists because I was never murdered, but I was raped when I was 12. No, I was 13, definitely 13. Mike did it.
Truth is insanity , it can only be measured subjectively. I don’t even think it exists.
My father died when I was 4, but he still walks around the house like his heart beats. My mom never died and I don’t think she will. She’s too busy drowning in misery to be dead. Am I living in misery?I can’t see differences between misery and happiness and existence.
If you’re dead, do you exist? My sister doesn’t exist cause she was never born. They just cut her out and dumped her in something that got sent to somewhere. I never had one sister, but I have three. My brother only has one sister, but he has four; and I have a brother, my only brother. He lies, but I like him anyway. I like him because he lies like me.
No one knows me because my personality is pudding.
I want the world to love me.
Mike doesn’t love me, he never did, but he still says he does because that’s what boyfriends do. I had this boyfriend once, and he really did love me, but I ran away to Los Angeles because I loved him, too. Music lies, you need a lot more than love. Love keeps me nearly human though, so I guess I’ll keep doing it.
I’ve never been one for logic, but in 8th grade I was raped and took a shower and threw away clothes cause it never happened, so how could I have been wearing something and why would it be smeared with blood?
Those clothes never existed. They’re in a dump somewhere. Do dumps exist? They hold all these things that get thrown away, and if you can’t fInd it it doesn’t exist, at least that’s what that DMV lady said. She said I should get my driver’s license, and I said no.
I’m terrified of driving.
Once, I was in this car with this boyfriend who loved me and he nearly drove us dead. But he didn’t, and instead I got out of his car and walked home to take a shower and throw away clothes. My father didn’t notice because he died when I was 4. No one ever notices anything anyway.
I ride on trains between thoughts.
When I was 18 I rode on trains to my future and I couldn’t stop laughing because everyone knows there’s nowhere a no-one can get good. I stopped laughing because those trains got dark and everyone’s face was faceless. My face was faceless, too.
Mike asked me once if I was afraid of him and I said no, but he knew I was lying. Sometimes he says “do you love me?” and I say “yes” and he says “okay” and we have tea and keep going like that’s all there is to it. But that isn’t all there is, because he’s supposed to love me, too.
The only person who loves me is my sister I don’t have.
If I had one word or two I’d give it to you, but all I have is memories that aren’t mine, and clothes that never fit and never cover what I want them to, and mothers who can’t see past eyes, and brothers who love stories more than they love you, and sisters who blame you for not being sisters, and this boyfriend who loved you once, and boys and men named Mike who don’t know if you’re faceless, and fathers who died when you were four.