i need to make money. i have to make money. i have to get rich. otherwise that will happen to me. that is what happens to women who have no money. it's somehow still worse than being a man with no money because a man is not can not and will not be pushed into doing that. even if the woman does not get driven to do it it will happen to her. i need to get rich. i need to make money.

when i was a child, i had a diary where i wrote that i wanted to be a singer when i grew up. my grandmother found the diary and read it and asked me about it. i was ashamed. my mother never let me.
when i was a child, i told my tutor i wanted to be an actress. i knew what he was thinking then and upon further reflection i am certain that it was indeed what he was thinking then.

i just wanted to write this down. how pathetic it all is, isn't it? every time i impulsively broadcast it to the world and watch the numbers climb the next morning with immense shame i promise myself that i'll never repeat it ever again. it never helps. nothing helps. nothing will ever help. all because she left me when i was four and i perceived that as abandonment and developed an eating disorder to cope, which she then spun into

i don't want to talk about this anymore. i can't even be honest with myself because i read everything through their lens, where they'll see it as pity-farming and attention-whoring. empathy for me but not for thee. excuses. everything i say is an excuse. i am a disgusting malicious fiend who can never be punished enough.

all those people went on to live normal lives. the only person left to still be dragged through the mud is me.
he told me i didn't deserve it. at least i can believe that now. at least i can feel defiant instead of doggedly cowering for punishment that was never enough.

and yet he's a liar too.

what a world, huh? what a world. what a life. what a reality. and what a waste of characters and electricity.

what a terrible introduction to this sorry mess of a "website". what a sorry mess it is to wake up everyday and lay in bed for the next five hours, to get up to shower then lay back in bed for the next ten. to do nothing but brood. brood enough that the thoughts themselves disappear as well. there is simply nothing there. seeing and not thinking.
it reminds me of a very innocuous line in agatha christie's "and then there were none". i remember the fervor with which sixth grade me read it and proceeded to attempt to model the rest of my stories in the same fashion.
during the early chapters, she describes one of the characters (all i remmeber is that his name started with an A) soaking in a warm bath, apparently not thinking of anything at all. said character was described as hot-headed and frivolous, very Se-dom. anyway, what struck me is the fact that something like this could apparently exist. there were apparently people who could live moments without a singular thought in their heads. and i found it so peculiar i spent the next several years trying to emulate it (especially during meditation) but it was of no use.

well, i can experience that now. and it sure isn't pretty.

i just feel catatonic. there is nothing to be said. she will never know. he will never understand. and they will only shun.
what good does it do? no good at all. why go around in circles? what an empty stream of consciousness. i've lost my edge for words and expressions, all my threads. there is nothing left to me anymore. i sleep and i lay awake and i blink. there is nothing. there is simply nothing at all.

nothing in this world would amaze me. nothing in this world can amaze me. what a boring world where everything clings to the floor and there's things like probability and blood and pus and sweat and saturn. how boring it all is. a boring world of debauchery and degeneracy and feet and hair and dust. what pompousness. how empty it all is and how ceaselessly boring. there's nothing to do there's nothing to see here. nothing would ever impress me. nothing would ever make it bearable. nothing would ever make it worth it. there is nothing and no one and i am nowhere at all. photoreceptors and ear wax and anticlimactic soda kept in the fridge. words that mean nothing to no one.

i think of tasting markers a lot. holding the pens against the tip of my tongue, tasting the searing bitterness of the ink spread through my buds, picturing the electricity surging to and fro. one day i'll do it. i'll die the most gnarly death possible. they'll find me sucking sharpies dry or with pins in my throat. maybe both.

too many words. i am simply catatonic. i miss you m. r is a liar and that is my fate. that is my destiny. so i'll suck on my sharpies and bear it.