11:29 am

Hello beautiful people!

The time now is 11:29 am. It is Tuesday, the twenty-fourth day of the third month of the two thousand and twentieth year of our Lord. I am surrounded by my aggressively pink and purple blanket, my favorite novel, my ugly back up journal because my parents stole mine, and a shiny, particularly tempting Gillette Nacet Double Platinum razor blade. The temptation is horribly acute today, despite me being about a month clean, hence my decision to write before a blog was due. I am writing using a technically stolen computer, since my parents obviously cannot, at least consciously, let me use any holdable item that has the potential to boost my mood. As a result of this, my pumping organ is racing, because the man known to you as my father could walk in at any moment now and see that I am attempting to make myself happy, and oh God forbid that Jasmine is happy. I could of course lock the door and practice some form of solitude, one of my specialties, but that has proven particularly difficult because the same man mentioned earlier took the locks on my bedroom door down for a reason I am still yet to discover. I know what you’re thinking, What’s the worst that could happen if he did find me with the laptop? Interesting that you should ask. This man does have the potential and drive to lay me to eternal rest, believe it or not. He has tried it before, out of what everyone else says was out of “he cares so much about you but he doesn’t know how to show it; he’s afraid of losing you.” You know what I say to that? Utter bullshit. Never in my sixteen and a half years of suffering from undesired consciousness have I ever heard of violence as an act intended to show love. Even in movies, where the most extreme forms of unrealisticness are portrayed. I do appreciate the important and crucial role fiction plays in creating a reality out of sheer imagination. I have, in fact, come to depend on fiction as a way of escaping from the unescapable reality of our contemporaneity. However, as drawing and addictive as it can be, we have to accept that fiction is all it is and all that it will ever be. I could continue pouring my feelings, which I have come to loathe, out for as long as human existence could last, but I really do have to go before I am laid six feet under. Oh look, I suggested that I will live for eternity and hence write as long as human beings exist, yet another side effect of fiction.

Vaarwel. ❤