Waste of type
2002-10-08 || 9:06 p.m.

I want to write something but I feel bleak.

Silly really. Earlier on I felt fine and I was going to write a happy entry but it just sounded stupid so I scrubbed it. Now I'm depressed again. So normal service resumed then.

I have a tummy ache and I'm freezing cold.

When I was small I used to fantasize about my own funeral. I just so wanted to die. I just wanted to be in the ground, away from everyone. I still feel like that but I have this morbid fear of dying in my sleep. I don't know why. I mean, what difference does it make HOW it happens, really.

I don't like any of the people I am. There's something wrong with all of them.

I keep starting to write about things but then deleting them.

Everything I think or write is silly and trite.

I both hate and love this blackness.

Now I can't write either.

and I still cannot read

Oh fuck. I still cannot read.