11.10.2000

"Oh, my darling, how beautiful you are,
Gone with the sin my darling,
So beautiful you are."

Beautuful, beatiful. I can't spell beautiful.

Jaffa cakes. Why not? They have chocolate on them. Chocolate is all I need.

"Can't get worse than yesterday."
Poor Bon Jovi. He's never been here, has he? It can always get worse than yesterday. In fact, yesterday was quite cool when I think of it. But he doesn't have to agree, of course.

I hope I won't choke. I feel like I was choking. I eat too many jaffa cakes and it doesn't help at all.

I hope I'll throw up. I haven't made myself throw up since Saturday. Before that, not in the past two years. It doesn't feel that long.

Nothing ever changes, right? Cycles, eternal cycles. Everything that goes around, comes around. And it truly does. In my life, anyway. "The names may have been changed but the faces are the same." (I pay too much attention to the lyrics.)

The sin is this. I am not happy. I do not want to be happy. I want to be dead. It isn't a question of wanting a better life, I just want no life.

No, I think I lied. I want happiness. I want life. I want love. I want to be permanently happy, in a permanent state of bliss. Nothing else is good enough.
Maybe I'll start doing drugs. That's something to think of.
I dislike reality. Reality is painful. Always. Whatever they say. It's always too disgusting at some point. That's why I don't want to want it. Bliss is impossible, after all. You don't want impossible things.

(Except that I do.)

Idealism? Hope? Stupidity?
I don't know. It doesn't matter much, does it.

"You don't think of anyone else's feelings except your own." I'm inclined to believe that a person who says something like that doesn't think of anyone else's feelings either. You don't accuse people if you think of their feelings.
But now I'm being distracted again.

So. My grandmother died throwing up blood. She spent the last hours of her life throwing up things that are supposed to be inside you. The last months of her life she spent thinking that she was falling because she was on so much morphine. It didn't help with the pain properly but she still got to slide back and forth in her bed. She flipped through magazines that didn't exist and she wouldn't recognice any of us.

They could've injected more morphine than was necessary into her. They could have. It was suggested, hinted at.

I considered stealing her painkillers after she had died. I didn't, stupid me.

The Hippocratic oath the doctors need to make states that doctors must help their patients as well as they can, either heal them or make the rest of their life easier if there's nothing they else can do.

There are no people who wouldn't break their oaths. I'm no exception.