dream jobs:
i want to be stabbed right through my fucking heart blood everywhere but no one cares they want to see me die they did this to me
i take out my frustraions using a razor on my leg or by killing demons in doom but only the former works now
they dont fucking care and im tired of pretending its ok i could fucking kill myself and they wouldnt notice until my corpse starts rotting
i want to mutilate my body until its unrecognizablebitch.
i fucking hate the goddamn assholes at my school. throwing fucking parties and not inviting me. my friends are there. one day theyll regret this shit. just fucking wait.
ive been depressed since i was ten. my parents thought it was a phase. the doctors thought it was a phase. every year its gotten worse.
i had a weird drean. strangly vivid. i was in an old house. closest tihing i can describe it to was the lincoln house. it felt like a museam. on display. you ender at the foyer. to the left is the living room and a hall. to the right, shoved in a corner are the stairs. down the hall and to the left is a study. brown. very brown. to the right is the kitchen. light colors. only part of the house with a good aura. the only part with windows. upstairs was the worst. tight space. long hallway. to the left was a young childrens room. small. cluttered. toys like the ones they sell at the fur shop. its color scheme was dark pink almost red. to the rght was what seemed to be a teens room. green. light green. small and cluttered like the last room. no toys. i could tell something tragic happened to the girls in those rooms.
the anger is back
i cant do this anymore.
i fuck everything up. i dont even realize what a piece of shit i am. i dont know how much longer i can live like this. i dont know how much longer i can live. im unbareable. even i cant stand me. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. this isnt enough. even when im gone the shitty aftermath of my mistakes will still be here. i cant do anything. every day i live i just make another mistake. i dont even remember half the things i say or do.
when i die, dont waist money on a funeral. just bury me. or burn me. i dont know which costs less. or leave me out to rot. its free an its what i deserve.
its been 1 month and 23 days. i cant even make it to 2 months. pathetic.
suicide is an art i would like to master.
why cant i feel?
i just want to feel. gore doesnt do shit anymore. doom doesnt do shit. cutting does jack all. i want to rid my anger.
love is strange. its even stranger when you feel love for someone you shouldnt. she understans me. she knows how fucked i am and how to make me feel less fucked. i dont deserve her, my poet. i love her. i cant even say those words to my own mother. shes like my basil and i am dorian. i know who my harry is too.
anger. i know this feeling all too well. she's made it worse.
i will become god.
some people arent ment to live past 16. i am one of them.
what a funny date. happy 38th dylan.
im in love with the idea of love itself.
i do not believe in murder because of a racial bias. killing because of the color of another person's skin is pathetic. just admit you have no real reason for your crimes and get on with it.
ive had these thoughts for many years. the earliest i remember is 6th grade religion. my thoughts were not rational, a childs thought. i dreamed of doing away with my entire religion class. i hated my bitch tacher. 7th grade moved to more complex thoughts per se. plans. of no one in particular. i wanted to be known. i had no thought of actually going through with these ideas. just wanted to indulge. 8th grade was like my 6th grade year but more knowledge on the subject. my thoughts were more violent, darker. fun.