Friday, July 17, 2009
Skip all this shit if you don't wanna read it. Frankly, I won't blame you.

I'm good. Everything's good. Life's good.

Got friends. Family. A boyfriend. Stable studies. Great living. Two homes. Laptop, desktop. Plethora of books, games, movies. The Wii, Xbox, 360. Guitar Hero. Two wardrobes full of clothes. Passably attractive. Nice enough to hold friendly-but-impersonal conversation with.

So tell me. Why am I not happy?

It hit me less than 5 minutes ago.

Because I'm fucking dsyfunctional.

Don't believe me?

Look at me. LOOK AT ME, if you can bear to.

When I see myself in the mirror, I want to smash it, pick up the pieces and slice myself to pieces. Even words, once my friend, fail me. I cannot convey how much I abso-fucking-lutely

HATE

myself.

I'm weird, okay? I fucking admit it. I'm a fucking hypocrite, a liar, a bitch, a sadist, a backstabber.

I'm lost. A little girl lost in a big, big maze. A maze too tall to climb, and far too huge to get out of.

The other day I tried listening to my music again. I read the bands.

Saosin. Metallica. Theory of a Deadman. Alesana. Slayer. Anthrax. Avenged Sevenfold. Puddle of Mudd. The Used. The Receiving End of Sirens. Cobra Starship. Forever the Sickest Kids. AFI. All Time Low. Chiodos. Disturbed. Iron Maiden. Deep Purple. Marilyn Manson. Megadeth. Motion City Soundtrack. Atreyu. Nightwish. Pantera. Senses Fail. Misfits. Offspring.

Guess what?

I DON'T RECOGNIZE ANY OF THEM.

What does it mean?

Either I have a split personality.

Or. I have been lying to myself, all these years. Pretending to be someone I never wanted to be, just to fit in. A reject hiding behind a mask of acceptance. And what's the worst thing to do?

I fell in love with PRETENDING.

Hate. Hate. Hate.

Hate is strong. Hate is good. Hate flows. I exist on hate, not love.

And I hate myself for it.

All you fucking, stupid morons. "I hate this, I hate that," you whine. Over trivial things. Don't.

Don't. Fucking. Say. That.

Hate is when you combine utter despair, intense violence and irrational sense. HATE is what you feel when you want to KILL yourself, or someone else, because of it.

We've all deluded ourselves, far too many times. Our hate is mingled, no, tangled with love. Like vines wrapped around a dark, red rose. Choking it. Slowly, at first. But as soon as the rose begins to wilt, the vines will conquer. Soon it'll become a weed, completely useless and easily disposed of.

I'm the rose. The vines are creeping higher, higher, higher. It wraps around my ankles, slowly, almost gently at first. Then they grip tightly, so that somewhere in the back of my consciousness, I am aware of it, but not willing to acknowledge it at first. Then, as the days pass, the vines grow. What they thrive on is simple: hatred. Simple, cold, murderous, metallic hatred. And the ground I am planted on is abundant with it.

Now. They're coiling themselves up my legs. At this stage, I can still make a pretence of denial. But by now I already know that it's too late. It's growing too fast to be controlled.

Fuck. It's tightened. The vines are holding me so firmly, I can't move without having it stab into me. Thorns, thousands of small, razor-sharp thorns, piercing my skin, my flesh, my blood.

Blood. It's tasted blood.

And it likes it.

The growing process is speeding up. The vines have dropped their act of growing gradually. Now it's fully grown, at the stage when it acts the fastest. It winds itself like a rope constructed from blades around my body. Up. My waist. Half-deep. Higher. Higher.

It's now around my neck, at this very instant, as I'm typing this. I'm choking to death, very, very slowly, very gently, on a self-made noose.

But soon the vines will envelop me completely. And when they do, nothing, no axe, no gun, no fire, can save me.

By then, only death can redeem me.

And by then, I'll be happy to die.

I stand in front of the mirror of truth.

And I asked it, "Mirror, mirror, who do you see?"

It answered, "I don't see a person."

I said, "That's impossible. I'm standing right in front of you."

It answered, "I do not see you.

"I see no one there, no one at all."

With a blow, I strike it

And it shatters, into silver fragments.

I pick up a tall shard, which has stabbed me in the heart.

And pull it out.

No blood on it. But I'm bleeding. I'm bleeding faster than fuck.

I look at the shard. And demand of it, "Who do you see?"

The reflection shows an empty, blank white. Nothing. Nobody.

I can't see myself.

Slowly, I grind the shard to dust

And wait for Death to stake it's claim.