It’s a workday but I have no tasks assigned nor instructions on how to do anything so I’m just standing by. That means shitting around on the internet.

Well. It doesn’t feel good.

Not that labwork ever feels good, mind you.

I don’t have any friends, not that I would want that liability, and I want to be colder. I want to be colder. Artistic is cold.

There are others in this demise but I won’t name them.

What am I saying…?

I haven’t eaten today yet. I’m not hungry. I think kratom kills my appetite. Mother doesn’t shut up about her shitty cooking. She made bell peppers stuffed with rice and mushrooms. They taste like this. Sorry, mom. No flavor, whatsoever. Sorry, mom.

I want to be an artist. I’m so tired of doing things I don’t like, and then not having anything to do. I want to be enabled. No one cares about me. No one cares about you when you’re any adult. Some people fall in love. What little pittance is that.

Blueberries washed in a small bowl on my desk that I don’t want.

French language.

Trawling Twitter all day. It’s crap. It doesn’t feel good but I have to.

I still can’t detect when I’m addicted to something.

I really, really want to play some sports. But people are fucking retards. God I hate this so much.

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say.

Not reading the messages my therapist sent me because I’m a combination of ashamed and scared after I sent him some sketchy messages during an episode a few days ago.

Life, there’s no reward. I’ll give myself a medal if I make it to the end of it, period.

Thanks for reading.

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