please dig me up and devour
2003-03-16 || 6:38 p.m.

Now I know why I just wrote what I wrote in that other place.

Shit.

Why do I know things that there is no point in me knowing? Why is my life constructed like the plot of a very clever but ultimately totally boring novel?

Sometimes its not even a matter of minutes between random and yet related events.

I'm so confused.

I can't be bothered to write things that are funny anymore. I can't be bothered to write things that are wacky or eccentric anymore.

I can't be bothered to dress the way I do or like the things I do. None of it matters.

I'm just some stupid fake concept and I don't feel real.

I don't even have real feelings. I don't reckon I have one single real feeling. I think I just make them all up because I read about how you are supposed to feel and I observe how other people really do feel. But I don't feel anything. I just pretend I do. I don't think anything about me is genuine. I don't think my pain is real. I don't think my love is real. I think I am a piece of cardboard that I pretend to hang things on. If you take all these pretend things away you will find nothing there.

If I were to rip my heart out and stick a red hot poker in the jagged, bleeding gap, it wouldn't hurt so much as this does.