29.10.2000

Right.

Do you hear me at the back? Good. Let's start.

First of all I'm shallow. I pay attention to outward things. I walk around disliking people's shoes. I'm lazy. I lie in bed all day and then some more. I'm stupid. It takes me five minutes to count in my head, and I can't form a decent opinion that has something to support it, other than my personal intufuckingition. I have no intellectual or emotional depth whatsoever. I can write as good essays as a blindfolded monkey, with the exact same principle of randomness. I can't even get myself killed, how pathetic is that? I can't make myself to stop wanting to kill myself, even if I would sometimes want to, and that is even more pathetic than you could imagine.

I'm a fucking giggling, idiotic whore with absolutely nothing worth saying. I'll lick your boots clean for you if you ask me to. I'm melodramatic for no good reason, and I whine till you drop and continue whining after that about things that have either no significance whatsoever, or about things I could make better if I just stopped being so fucking lazy and idiotic. My brainactivity and capacity probably match those of a mongoloid, and to make it a thousand times worse, I can't even insult myself properly because I simply don't have the words to describe how useless and disgusting I actually am.

I do none of the things I should do. I do nothing I'd want to do. I can't make myself do anything. I'm an overgrown, spoilt baby who can do nothing herself, but instead always expects everyone else to listen and to act and talk and do anything this fucking crybaby can't bother to make herself do. Instead of trying I decide I'm tired, and go to bed again, like I had any reason to slip away from everything that needs to be done. Instead of dealing with anything I just curl up and suck my thumb and pity myself like I had any reason whatsoever for that. And then I whine that I never get anything I want when I don't even fucking try. And then I make myself throw up or cut or whatever to escape the fact that I'm the only one to blame and I simply suck and nothing is as difficult as it seems, but I just have to pretend because I'm such a spoilt fuck.

Oh, and then I'll write whiny, irrelevant diary rants on how much I suck to avoid the fact that I should once again be doing something. And I can't do anything because I simply am incapable of brainactivity and I simply am Stupid and I simply can't do anything because I'm useless and pathetic and I never should've been born in the first place. Oh, and here I am at university, taking away someone else's place without any motivation whatsoever, and without any possibilities of doing anything because I just am so pathetic that I probably couldn't better myself even if I found the energy somewhere, and I can't find that energy because I'd rather go to bed (because I'm spoilt and I'm used to getting everything I want without doing anything but whining).

And you probably can't imagine just how pathetic that pathetic is.

I don't want to write that fucking essay. I don't want to. It makes me feel sick to even think of it. So instead I whine, like I had any proper reason to avoid writing it. It's just going to get worse the longer I wait. But of course I'm stupid enough to ignore that.
I'm doing this on purpose, am I not? Because I could've forced myself to think before the last minute, I could've twisted my thoughts till I had to arrive at some conclusion and write the fucking thing, but oh no, I had to wait till the last minute because I'm both useless and lazy. I hate myself, and even that's probably just an excuse to avoid doing anything.

I can't deal with this anymore.