Write

how am i supposed to sit here and formulate sentences as i used to when i was a teen? the angst sits here, but it’s not the same. it’s deeper, colder, and realer somehow.

suddenly, what we thought was fun, we now call an addiction. what was a fun quirk is now a diagnosis with its subsequent prescription that makes you sleep more, feel less, and be aware less. everybody is dealing with shit, everybody is busy, i still don’t understand how to pay taxes. i feel like the child left behind.

how to write? my psychiatrist never asked me to write but i wrote ideas i have around the weekend to see how far i am from my impending check-in into a cuckoo house and subsequent suicide:

this is a brief list of things i write. the only things i can write, the only ideas that conquer my mind when i am trying my best to not be a complete asshole:

• hell is truly a dinner with my extended family.
• i get incredibly horny after getting a tattoo.
• why don't we just give up on coffee?
• this sucked. we kissed.
• you need a lot of nerves to actually formulate a phrase out loud. i respect people that talk in public.
• alcohol took away most of the things that i genuinely loved.
• what if the medication i take for my borderline personality disorder is actually preventing me from identifying symptoms that could lead to treatments to actually help me heal and not just stop feeling like the rage of the universe fit in my pinkie?
• i think rage is a beautiful thing.
• i get turned on when my boyfriend opens a beer with unconventional objects.
• i have beautiful feet.
• i love how my antidepressants, anxiolytics and antipsychotics make me sleepy for days. i also feel that this is deeply wrong.
• all my grandparents are gone. is there a term for being an orphan but only grandparents-wise? because mom and dad are here but its still very empty, like we miss even the worse days with them.
• the last religious service i will attend will be at my mother's funeral.
• i am up for dying if that means i can stop the pain and fistfight god at the same time.
• people leave. ALL. THE. FUCKING. TIME.
• i’m getting wrinkles and age marks on my face. i think i like them. i like to look like i’ve lived because the devil knows i’ve lived.
• i wish i punched in the face a lot of people, i wish i skipped all my restraints.
• i can’t write anymore and maybe that's okay. maybe i’ll just scream from now on