  "Telling me to stay away is as futile as the Surgeon General's warning on cigarette packs. " Today was a sad waste of neurons. Shaking hands, lots of tears and a strong desire to invent a time travel apparatus and get all Donnie Darko on this motherfucker!
I hate you for being such a pussy. I hate myself for not taking charge. I hate her for thinking she is your mother. How many shitty love poems am I going to write? They don't mean anything to anyone myself included. I cannot purge this no matter how far I stick my pen down my brain. I am suffering from thought bulimia binging on words.
I just want it to be empty up there because I am tired of thinking. I am tired of the pain in my chest. I talked to Angie and I was jolted with inspiration so I decided to stay in and write instead of going out in the snow and wasting brains cells. I am not in the mood for feigning enthusiasm or for contact with humans. I am buried so deep in my twisted little head that there is no point in leaving the house.
My mood swings are really fucking with me. One minute I am bouncing off the walls the next I am trying to figure out how to get away with murder. Everybody tells me that it will work out. The problem is I don't believe in destiny nor do I believe that true evil can ever be surmounted. I am not going to lay down and die. Yeah, I am as wounded as that bird about to get run over by a Mac truck but I will not feel sorry for myself (I really hate birds but I'll leave that alone for now).
I know that your poor little ears are probably brimming with poison but I will show you the truth next time. For now I’ll keep telling myself that one day we will laugh at all of this while lying in bed watching 90210. 
