I’m so sick of writing in here. Then don’t! It’s not so simple: You have to do something, and what else is there to do? Just relax. I can’t! Fool.

Stomach ache from all the shit I put in there. I’m not a healthy person. I’m not dying.

I don’t like the way I write. I’m too me. I’m just myself. I’m nothing more. I’m not great. I’m boring. Some people get self-conscious about their looks; I think I’m getting self-conscious about where I find my identity: my writing.


I had something else to say I forgot.

Oh yeah! It’s hard to feel comfort these days. From a warm bed, a heavy blanket, a warm bath. I don’t really feel comfort from anything anymore. It’s kind of a nightmare, living a life without comfort, ever.

How can you leave it at just that?

Why not? What else?

And that?

I don’t see what your point is.

I can stop whenever I want. I owe you no favors. Quit acting like my father.

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