31.3.2000

Why?!? WHY!?!
I can't bear this. I can't. I don't want to. I don't.
I can't stand the love. I can't stand the romances and comfort and whatever it is that they're giving each others. Because if they just stay quiet I can think I might be like them, deserve some of what they deserve. But I'm wrong. I'm filthier than they.
I'm not worth it. Oh, yeah, I would like to hear that I am. I would like to hear I'm worth loving. I'd like to believe it.
I'd like to believe I can do something, that I can be something, someone.
But of course I'm wrong. Because I am not. I am nothing.
Nothing good, nothing worth it.
Self-pity. Is this self-pity? Or is it just hatred, only hatred? What else could I do, what else could I ask? Surely it matters, if it's self-pity, if it's hatred. There must be a difference. There must be something that makes some sense, any sense, anything. Please, give me anything.
(But I don't deserve it.)
Stupid of me to hope I did. Some day. For some reason.
Maybe because everyone's worth it? (But I'm not worth it, I'm worse than the trolls in a.s.h. I'm worse than… the indescribable.)
Now I should get my act together, it'd be rational. And I'm rational, I'm so fucking rational. I can do verything, I can play every part. None of them know anything. I'm good, good at playing my part.
(Hey, at least I'm good at something, yeah, and it's not worth it.)
If I was worse in pretending I might have done it already. I might not be here, clinging to others, making everyone around me miserable. Because that's what I'm doing, the eternal insulting comments. I say I don't mean them. But maybe I do mean them? Maybe I want to hurt them all? Maybe I'm just pretending to make my life more bearable. Like Celeste. Like Garland.
I'm nineteen, for fuck's sake. I shouldn't be doing this, I shouldn't feel like this. I'm 19. I never thought I'd live this long. At first it was 6, then 10, then 11,12,13…18. And then I'm 19. Without realizing.
I should be happy. Aren't 19-year-olds happy? They should be, I keep thinking. A teen. It's like I was a child, still. I can't remember being a child. Such a false memory. Distorting things.
Sometimes I think 19 is young, it strikes me as such a young age. There should be a million things in front of me, a million happy things. When did it turn out to be like this?
I've been laughing lately, occasonally. Been amused even if there's nothing to be amused about. I'm that kind of a thing, I keep laughing at the most inappropriate things. Because inappropriate things are amusing, their inappropriateness is amusing, people caring about that's inappropriate and what's not. How can they care?
I know it can't be funny, I know they aren't laughing. But I'm too tired to disapprove, too tired to care. And it's that kind of tiredness that never goes away.
Funny. I don't really notice I'm living. Not all days. Not on the good days.
You know, I wish I could feel close to someone. But I'm too insane, too filthy, too disgusting. There's a layer of dirt between me and the world. That's why everything looks so grey, so unreal. That's why I can't feel it when someone touches me. That's why I can't sleep. It keeps me awake, keeps me alive.
What else would I be, what else than a bag of dirt.

Index.