Apparently this is my 425th post. Crazy.

I feel broken today, jaded a bit. I'm not sure why. Last night I found myself inspired and the rebirth of a story was fresh in my head but as I sit here now I can't seem to bring myself to write anything constructive. It feels like too much.

The kittens are gone. Didn't I tell you? My neighbor was feeding a cat and it had kittens in my back yard. I spent an hour on the phone calling 50 billion places yesterday trying to find a no-kill situation for these cutest of animals. They're gone today though. Who knows. Good luck, kitties.

I'm feeling the need to disappear again today. I wish I could be invisible, lock myself away in darkness for a while and wait for this feeling inside me go away. I would be blinded when I stepped back out. Back out towards who? My loneliness astounds even me.

Today I was tickled by tall prairie grass. It was as if it were trying to reach for me, to swallow me whole. I would go willingly, content at being sweetly tickled until the earth stops turning. It made me feel small, in the best way possible.

(Turkeys are really ugly.)

Today I felt something different, something new. It was the absence of something that I never thought I could ever be without. I can't say that I'm happy about it; happy would never be the word. It's almost as if I exhaled something more than smoke in one big deep breath, and truth be told I feel even lighter than I appear in true physical form. Do I really seem that small to you?

Lately I've been forced to rethink and reanalyze body image, mine. Compliments help. I'm beginning to enjoy those once again. But as it always has been, it's another work in progress. Maybe someday I'll believe you; I'd like to think so.

If you didn't already know this, I'm a lunatic. I'm a deranged insane freak who loves to kill herself mentally again and again, over and over...

Why do I do this to myself? It's like I stand ready to get punched in the stomach and when the pain hits, I cry so hard that I have to laugh.

I watched you die again last night, in my dreams. It wasn't like last time, except for the emotion I felt at the time- that was exactly the same.

I woke up shaking.

Half alive and already late, I can't understand why my body enjoys the emotional pain so much. Why can't I just wake up like normal people. It would prevent this whole over-sleeping bullshit I go through every time I have a fucked up dream. I guess, for now, it's best that I don't have a job. They'd fire me the first week.

There's something terribly depression about sitting alone, late on a Saturday night, eating fast food chicken in your underwear and watching sad romantic comedies...

In case you ever thought it couldn't be worse. Hopefully every human being is having more luck in life than I am at this moment.

I think I'm about to throw up.

There was no fiery car crash to speak of. No late night swimming adventures gone awry. Not even a nasty fall down stairs. It wasn't all pleasant times but all in all, I have survived yet again. I'm waiting for the day when I won't be so lucky. I did happen upon a strange letter, on my travels...

My dear Heart!
What has happened to you? You're scared. On cold nights I can feel you trembling. But you tremble on warm nights too. Do you remember the last time, the day you danced? There was no trembling; you fluttered like a bird. You almost flew! If only for your cage, you could have. Have you ever wondered what life would be like if you had escaped that day? My body would be empty, a mere hollow shell. I would miss you so. I know how badly you long to be free. I would give anything to see you able to fly far, far away from here, but in that end it would mean my doom. Life is a gift, dear Heart, but so is freedom. You have given me life. It seems only fair that I should be so kind to you, but of that I am scared. I've held on to you so tightly for so long to let go would be... a relief. To think that such a tiny thing, a flick of the wrist, could alter the universe as we both know it. Such a tiny thing...

...From here the pages were damaged, the letters worn and utterly unreadable. A strange letter, written probably by a lunatic. I hope for the saddest of all endings for them. To me, those are the only ones that make sense these days. Their words hurt my heart. I don't feel a tremble or a flutter, but something else. I wince, or cringe, or some other word that means anything other than to "feel good." It has become a sensation that I have grown accustomed to in the weeks past, months really.

I wish I could remember what it felt like, to flutter, to love, to be loved.

I'm still waiting for the tears to stop. I'm waiting for that day to come, the one everyone promised me would happen.

Tomorrow I'm leaving town and I don't know when I'll be back. Maybe never. Maybe I'll die in a fiery car crash on the side of the road. Country roads are never that well lit.

Ignore this morbid girl, she doesn't know what she's saying anymore.

I'm craving water like never before. I need more places to go that remind me of how beautiful the world can be. I'm starting to forget. There was that first California sunset... Petting an elephant... The first time my stomach dropped from a roller coaster... Wet grass on bare feet... It's not enough anymore.

Sometimes it just hurts so bad. And I can't talk about it. I can't talk about it with anyone, how much it hurts. I find myself falling to pieces every time and I have to hide it. I will say that I do that well enough, hide. I've always been good at that. I so easily disappear, or block out the tears welling up inside the edges of my eyes, smile instead of scream when there are too many closed ears around me. I hate the thought of this but sometimes it feels like the world is kind to everyone but me. I give it this, at times, the world has been overly kind to me, but why is it that everyone around me seems to have everything all figured out while I'm left drowning in the kiddy pool all alone, all of a sudden? My loneliness is astounding. And I always knew it to be true in some way, but these days I fully understand the concept of the fact that I am destined to die alone. Every man does, right?

I had this beautiful image of myself the other day. I sat alone outside before a dying campfire. Stars bright and by the millions in the sky. That night I would sleep and it would rain and the rain would freeze and so would I. I don't think I'd mind freezing to death in my sleep.

I can't write anymore. I haven't written a story in months. I haven't been inspired in months and sadly I don't see that changing any time soon. My college education was a gamble from the start and based on my life thus far, post graduate, it was a complete waste of time, energy and a fuck-ton of money. How is a lazy son of a bitch like me supposed to get anywhere when I hold all the cards. I've never been much of a gambler. I'm a week's sanity away from walking into a chain bookstore and asking for an application and re-uping my drug intake. I probably wouldn't hate my life anymore than I do now, and at least I'd have a job and drugs. But I guess part of me still has hope. I wish I could kill it off.

Hope does nothing for me, nothing but scar. It's hope that keeps me awake at night. It's hope that gives me a reason to get out of bed everyday. It blinds me to reality and the reality of today is that I have a lot, but nothing that means much of anything to me. I sincerely believe that if I can't write, I'm nothing but my question is:

is a life without love worth living?

Because I don't think I'm capable of it anymore and if I am I don't think I want to be tested again. I don't know if I could survive, and considering my insiders knowledge of this last "experience" I don't think I'd want to. It would give me cause for instant slitting of the wrists to save myself the months of depression I'd be doomed to endure otherwise.

But I shouldn't have said most of this. Fuck the fact that this is my only outlet. I feel more censured now than ever... I wish I could be mean or just brave and end everything one way or another. I wish I could find something to justify, one way or another. I wish I could cut those last few strings that hold my head up, fall dead and be left, disappear and be forgotten. I'm sure the few that might miss me would get over it.

I'm done here.

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Margot is getting married, official as of last night.

Cheers!

Boo! Hiss!

I have a cavity. One. In the very back of my mouth.

FUCK FUCK FUCK. I have another date with my dentist this Saturday. Jealous?