2000-12-25 (Anna, take a look at the previous entry for an explanation.) I've eaten too much. I got shirts and cds and a book for Christmas presents. The cds are a change, shirts are blue and look awkward on me, and the book seemed like a perfect love story, for which I'm too old and cynical nowadays. When I was a kid I would've loved it, now I just hope it has a happy ending and I manage to concentrate long enough to escape reality for a while. I like escapism. I'm supposed to watch Anna Karenina, which I never read (even though I tried when I was younger). I'm interested because I don't really know what it's supposed to be about. I'm anxious to be here, sitting at the table with the others makes me nervous (I never knew I had a neurosis about that too) and the thought of going back to hospital isn't the most pleasant one. I'd like to be dead, quite frankly. I feel increasingly bad about being alive. I used to have hope that it's going to get better, and then -for a while- it actually seemed to get better, then it got worse, and now I just don't want anything anymore. Death would be so easy and painless. I hate being alive, nothing makes me happy for longer than twenty seconds. I figured I'd buy a razor when the shops open and slash the hell out of my arm, but if I get caught, it probably means isolation. Not that I'd mind the isolation cell. I think I might even enjoy it, if they drugged me up well enough. I'm sorry I always whine but I really, really hate Christmas and most of my family, and I dislike the stress and anxiety I get when I'm with them. I'd like to travel to south pole and freeze to death. Perfect whiteness might do good. |
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