I really only enjoy writing these god damn things because it helps me figure out what I'm thinking. Being there isn't enough. I have to really read it to understand it.

And so I must write it.

I think if I was stuck with nothing to look forward in my life, I might fare better. At the moment, I feel like a horse's ass. Why? Well because I'm alone, of course! Doesn't anyone listen to me? Don't they understand by now how I feel when I'm alone?

Last night when I was alone, I popped open my vein again. Yeah, I know, stop. Well what ever. I'll do what I want. That's not why I'm here. Obviously, I think less clearly when I'm alone. I do... ridiculous things.

So I'm sitting here, feeling like a dumb ass. A needy dumb ass. Because I can't be left alone... I need someone to talk to me constantly. Isn't that sick? Jesus, I hate myself for that.

Back to my original posting reason. So right now I feel like shit, but I also feel like a horse's ass. Why? Because in a week, I'm going to visit my aunt with my friend to California. So now I feel like shit and guilty, because a lot of people would kill to be where I am now. That... just sounds wrong to say.

So Shawn thinks I have bipolar disorder. Why? Because over the entire time I've talked to him, every night, I've been just peachy and then, with the snap of a finger, been cursing him out, yelling at him, throwing things, yelling at my brother, and being overall nasty. Now... I don't know. I think he's just pegging an overly used condition onto what, unfortunately, is me. But, of course, part of me loves that. Why? Because it's something. It's just not me being me because I'm... me. It's me snapping on people because I have bipolar disorder.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves. But how do you test for something like that? I only know the symptoms.

Snapping.
Snapping.
Uhm, snapping.
And having virtually no memory of it.

Weird, huh?

I don't give a rat's ass.

So... go fuck yourself. ^.^

Jesus, I'm so tired of putting Life as the category...

Anyways, I'd like to start by telling you (myself?) that it's not like I wish to be fucked up like this. I really wish I was happy all the time like you all. I really do.

And I try to everyday. But of course, I fail. I'll probably never be able to be happy for any real amount of time. And I've accepted that just as I've accepted my fucked up and probably short life.

I'm just so tired of feeling sad. Like there's no end to this wasteland I'm living in now. Like it isn't going to stop until I'm dead.

I'm tired of all of the good things in my life being a year or a month or some unknown time away from now. Like I've got forever to wait until I feel good again.

I'm tired of wishing I could get over the sadness for a moment with a cigarette (or a shot or half the bottle), but not being able to get to one.

I'm tired of being lonely. Being the only person I know that is my age. I've tried to reach out. Teeny and I talk somewhat regularly. But I've called her several times lately with no answer.

You don't know how fucking much I'd give to wander around a parking lot with Teeny and Eric like we used to. Yes, I fucking said Eric. I fucking messaged him forever ago and got abso-fucking-lutely nothing back. I really wish I could ask people questions like are they avoiding me and why. I'd also really love to know their answer was the truth.

I've been lied to so much... I can't trust anyone anymore. Not even myself.

But my loss of trust is a painful, rocky road I don't want to go down right now. Long story. Longer life living after it.

Hopefully not too long.

Do 'normal' people have thoughts like that? About suicide on a daily (hourly?) basis? It comes up in most things I think about. You'd think I would have learned by now to stay out of my own head. It's just so nice in there. Cold and dark... safe.

And is that what I'd really like? To be in a cold, dark, lonely room and fester to myself? Maybe. Maybe doing that for a month would make me realize I don't have the shittiest life ever.

Even though State Marshalls are at my door every day.

Even though I want to smoke at 15.

Even though that's still my age and I'd like someone to hand me a bottle of vodka.

Even though I mutilate myself.

And even though I beg for death.

I keep thinking about that... how I'd like it to happen. Maybe... maybe something they could get money off of. But nothing gruesome like a mutilating car crash. Maybe... a food scare. Like this pig virus going around. So I puke my guts out for a month, die, and then my parents can sue someone for it (food companies, maybe?) and get money. Then maybe they can afford to live. Maybe feeding one child instead of two would be enough.

And sure I wouldn't ever actually get to go into the medical career. And maybe I couldn't do some of the things I'd hoped I could. But I could live with that. Or... die with the lack of it.

Because little things like that... are like getting high. It's short... and it's great. But you just want more afterward.

If it were up to me, I'd spend all of my time, wandering around parking lots... in California... with a smoke in one hand, and a monster in the other... with Teeny and Eric. Because there is where I'm truly happy. I can smoke and curse and drink my drinks and not have a care in the world.

But the more and more I think about it... do I even want to involve Eric? I keep thinking yes but another little voice tells me no. Because what happened last time I saw him? He talked to Teeny and I cried afterward. I cry a lot now because of that. Being so close to getting the FUCK over my problems... and look fine to SOMEONE. Anyone. But of course not. I had try... and in doing so I put up that violent cover. You know? The one that tries to take on boys twice her size? The one that tries to puff out her chest and seem more angry than depressed? And maybe that's what scared him away from me. Maybe not. And that uncertainty will drive me crazy.

Maybe I need to make a list of things like that that I wonder about... but will probably never know. And maybe when I kill myself... I'll stick it in my pocket and people will read it and maybe they will answer them. And maybe I will hear them... And finally be at peace.

I think I'll leave you right there for now. Leave you something to think about... We'll see if I come back to give you a little more...

Filing through the categories under which I could post this little thing right here, I realize there isn't a selection for home, or security or something like that. Odd, if you ask me. A human needs a place to live, food to eat, and people to love. I've got two out of the three.
 

Do you ever see those people on the Nightly News, being interviewed though their scruffed clothes make them look like they weren't expecting the visit? They look dazed. Unfocused. Confused, even. "It's just all gone. The po-lice came to our house the other day and says we's got a week to move out. We aint got no damn clue where we're goin'. I guess we'll work somethin' out." Sometimes I made fun of them. I feel really bad about that now.
 

We have no where to go. Our house isn't our house anymore. I've spent tonight going through my things, deciding what I want and need, and if I have enough boxes for it all. I've taken only a few things off of my walls and already it looks bare. I can't imagine what it'll be like knowing someone else is living in my house. Sleeping in my room. While I'm crammed into my grandmother's little house in Palm City with the rest of my family.
 

I've no clue what to do. I'm living some what numbly now, slowly going through my possessions, throwing much away. Boxing some. I feel like I finally got my room right, after 15 years of living here. I've got all of my posters, my drawings, my shelves and furniture just where I want it, and I'm taking it all down. A lot of shit has gone on with me lately, I've been depressed, left school, started smoking, thought about drinking and drugs, learned to hate my life and deal with it, began some type of self-mutilation, and become the ghost of the person I was when I was a child. But I always had a warm bed to come home to. Now, I don't know where my life will be.
 

Tomorrow my dad and I will get a trailer, rent a storage facility, and start trying to move stuff there. We were informed two days ago that we have to leave, and my parents will be arrested if we're not gone by noon this Friday. Easter is a week from Sunday. I can't imagine what that'll be like. I feel like crying right now, but I can't. I can't let anyone know what's happening with me right now.
 

I can't eat. My diet  consists of Monster Energy drinks to keep me going during the day. I feel unrested when I wake. I'm sore everywhere from doing nothing. I don't cut, but I still bleed. I don't know what to do. I haven't had a cigarette in two days, and then I only smoked part of one. I can't focus. I can't think.
 

I can't cry. Don't cry. If I start crying, my mom will, and my dad already feels like a failure as a parent. Ethan doesn't know what's going on. He's in his own little world.
 

I plan on meeting my friends at the bus stop and saying goodbye some time this week. Funny, I'm glad I finally got all my CDs back from Tori.
 

So, I'm off to stare at the ceiling. Pretend to sleep. Pray for sleep.