Right. I was unfortunate enough to experience the most hostile day of my life. Yes, you know what, Nettie. I am so glad to be home and start hanging a noose from the ceiling.

And I try so fucking hard but I'm never going to be anybody significant. My art can just go and fucking die, I'm never going to be a kind and thoughtful person, the state of my writing is deteriorating, everything, everything will never be right. Yes, everything I touch turns to shit. One month of like floorball and I can't dribble for shit. Suddenly I understood why Michael killed himself. If you can't do anything, then you might as well not live. Such a sad waste of space, of everyone else's time. I feel like a fungus growing on other people.

This isn't right. This isn't right. I mustn't be this shit stuck in the fucking hellhole. I'm brand new from the sea. Brand new, shiny and happy.

Fuck. Just, fuck.

There's nothing else but this shithole.

Labels: depressing, sad