“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard

Monday, February 16, 2004

So today I made the grave mistake of spending time with my family.

It’s not that I mind doing that so much, it’s just that lately they’ve decided that I have to be lectured about every tiny aspect of my life. You know these conversations. The ones where every sentence starts with: “You know what your problem is?” And those are the GOOD parts.

So just so everyone knows, I KNOW WHAT MY GODDAMN PROBLEMS ARE!!!

I know them all, every single fucking last one of them. They cycle through my head every waking moment, and just when I almost get them blocked out, some asshole has to fucking list them for me.

All I really have going for me right now is my ability to delude myself enough to push my self-loathing into a tight little ball in the pit of my fucking stomach. Is that too much to fucking ask?

Apparently it goddamn is.

So I now sit here, having eaten all the food in the house, knowing where the near-fatal amounts of liquor are located, sitting next to an entire arsenal of big sharp objects (I collect swords and knives), and I have to ask myself: what would chairs look like if our knees bent the other way?

Just kidding. I’m actually contemplating suicide again.

Yes, in times like these I can’t help but recall just how peaceful those five or so minutes I spent on the other side really were.

Now I’m going to go listen to old Nine Inch Nails albums and masturbate.

If that doesn’t make me feel better I’m going to slit my fucking wrists.

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