Nov. 13, 2001
I want to be someone that I am not. Can I, please? Clip off my nails. Cut off my hair. Skin me. Adorn me in wires. Staple me to a cross. Would I still have my identity. Will I be a tree? Will the harpies come for me? I do not think so. I feel so lost right now. And I'm so unhappy. I've been unhappy before... but now... I'm on the brink. This year's combination of events and situations and feelings is pushing me... farther and farther from safety. Had I the intelligence to stop it all, I would have long ago. I'm going away. What am I? Who am I? I think I remember, but I fear I am wrong. I'm wrong a lot. And I'm clumsy as hell. I drop everything I pick up. I trip on my own feet. I kill my actions. Sleepy now. Running out of things worth saying. If I really want to go for happiness, why am I sabotaging myself? Oh, yeah, I'm punishing myself for things beyond my control. Almost forgot. I damn myself every day. Who needs god for that?

The talk of trees and harpies is from Dante's Inferno.
One more:

Feb. 22, 2002
Cigarette in my left hand, pen in my right; this is how I start my entry today. In four days, I'll be twenty-three. Can you believe that? I can't. Of course, I can't believe anything in my life right now. Sometimes, I hate myself for it. But that's selfish. So selfish. I do a lot of selfish things these days. "Everything I ever touched, every thing I ever had has died." Last night, I cried while we spoke. Tears flowed in pools then slipped down my cheeks in steady streams. Is it too late for me? Is all that I am crumbling away like ash? It feels that way. ~"'I said, I love you,' I said," she disn't say a word.~ Well, this is painful. And delicious. ANd now, I'm not left with many options. I can drive the needle into your eye, or I can pull you into my arms. But my arms are as cold as steel. And no one has accepted them before. All that you love in me must be a lie. A terrible lie. A simple play of fractured scenes. Gods, forgive me, please. Cuz I can't forgive myself. It's impossible to argue with my heart. She wants what she wants no matter how unfair it is. I listened to you as you began to fall asleep, and I couldn't help but say the words. Well, try, anyway. The words grabbed onto my tongue and refused to let go for what seemed forever. I'd never said them before, and it was so hard. I feel so unworthy. UNWORTHY. But... I love you. Once said, there's no going back. No matter how terrified, I can't step back and deny anything. Go to sleep. Oh, for my sanity, go to sleep. This is craziness. SHOOT ME!

It's scary to delve into my head, most of the time. And yet, it's sort of thrilling--like a rollercoaster.

The hardcopy entries that I'll transcribe here are all rather tame compared to the majority of what I have on paper. Of course, most of it reads like an overly long and boring suicide letter, so there's no point in making you suffer through that. Hell, when I read it, I wanna slap myself for being so whiny. I'm rather fond of my psychotic ramblings, though. Every now and then, they're pretty entertaining. I'll try to dig up a few of those next time I feel like sharing.

I hope no one's taken aback by the things I write. Take it all with a grain of salt. My moods are more dangerous than Poe's "Pendulem." But they're much easier to avoid or cancel.

Lately, I've been trying to stop myself from speaking when it's unnecessary. At work, for instance. I don't have to share clever stories with my coworkers. I know they really don't give a shit, either way, what I have to say. So, I should keep to myself more. I hate catching myself speaking just to make conversation. More often than not, I don't have anything interesting to say. This is all truly odd, considering I'm a shy person. When I'm around strangers, I completely lay my real personality behind a brick wall and just smile and nod when given attention. Only in familiar company do I struggle to fill the silence. But ya know something? I don't even like most of my coworkers, so why the hell am I bothering to communicate with them? I guess it's a weakness. I don't want them to think I'm plotting their murders, so I make idle conversation.