Black, festering wounds fill my soul...

and pussy.

I'm still alive, unfortunately.

I've taken to using a switchblade to slice the tips of my fingers open so that i can watch the trickle of blood flow down my ugly, knobby fingers.

I listen to dark metal when I do this.

Also, I enjoy being raped.

So things were going ok for a while... I was actually feeling like life MIGHT be worth living. But then that stupid fuck... he left me. For no good reason other than that i wouldn't let him sleep with other women (or men) and that I wanted him to actually do things with me ( Read more... )

Black is like my hatred. Cold. Unfeeling. Anger, deep deep deep. ANGER!

I fucking hate my life.

People are such cretins.

Hypocritical stereotypes, cookie cutter shapes of one another.

I will never succumb to the fucking conformity.

I'm going to go listen to some NIN and paint my nails black now.

I'm going to the mall. How sad is that. My mother is forcing me along. I hate her so much. She thinks the "fresh air" will be good for me. The processed air in the car and the stuffy, reused air in the mall is NO better than in this godforsaken hellhole known as a house. I want to die.

I don't even believe in god. My life is trash, compacted by stereotypes, rotted by the polluted air and my father's whiskey-filled breath. I need to get out. I've only tried seven times. Somebody out there really wants me to suffer forever. I can't take it anymore. I've either got to kill myself or take out everyone else trying.