the end is the beginning is the end is the

It isn't that I want to be skin and bones. I hate my skin, for more reasons than I can count, and my bones, well, they're no better. Strip the skin off, and they're ugly, bare, fragile, exposed. I don't want to be exposed. I don't want to be seen. I'm repulsed when people look at me, when they try to touch me. Not by them, by myself. I don't see it; what the hell is it that they see?

I don't want to die, not in the literal sense. Not as a metaphor, either. I don't know what I want, that's the pressing issue here.

I tell myself I don't care. I don't care. I. Don't. Care. Do Not. Not. Do. Care. I do. (Not.)

Instead of verbalizing, I give you motivation. This is what I spend my time doing, putting pictures into secret files on my computer.

Damn. So maybe part of the reason I can't sleep is because I got some cocaine over the weekend. I did most of it, but there's still a bit left over. I did a line earlier, and now I want more. I'm "motivated" to do something, but I do nothing.

My dog ran away earlier today. Apparently she was in the middle of the road, trying to make friends with the cars. The cars fly on the road I live on. I got a call from this cute couple down the road, and they were holding onto her for me. My blood literally ran cold. I think if she was hit, I'd... I don't know. I can't think about that.

I weigh roughly 145 pounds. I can't even... go... there...

There's a jar of peanut butter sitting next to my bed. Yes. I really am that pathetic.

Good night, world.