Late night catechism
10 September 2003 at 11:45 pm

What happens when I stay up late, close my eyes, and type:

" Self-hatred is not a thing that comes naturally. It is a learned attribute, much like customer service and

I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.

And I want you to feel sorry for me, but I don�t want you to make it better because that would mean that I have to have faith in you and I can�t do that because then I would have to have faith in humanity and there is no such thing as faith; wait, that�s not right, there�s no sense in faith. There�s no sense in loving me anymore because there�s no point there will always be something better there will always be something wrong there will never be a time when everything is ok everything is ok everything is going to be alright but it sure as hell isn�t now. So I close my eyes and write these words and hope that maybe it I keep playing this game called life I�ll teach myself to ignore this wretched thoughts, these horrible fleeting urges to throw everything away, to throw myself off the cliff, to throw the pills down my throat. Maybe I�m just tired maybe it�s just hormones maybe it�s the stress of everything that�s going on because there has to be a happy medium between nothing and everything and if there isn�t than what is the point what is the point what is the point what is the point listen to you music and find happiness in your daily habits �why do you run� she asks �so it can be done� he responds �why do you live� she ponders �so I�ll go on to something better� because there can�t be this much bullshit in life if there isn�t a pot of gold at the end. Life isn�t fair, they say, but don�t throw it away, give it a day, things�ll brighten up in the morn-in. But I�ll still be crying then just like I�m crying now and there isn�t anyone around to tell me it�s ok everything�s going to be alright and I�m sorry I�m sorry I�m sorry but I just don�t see the point."

And to think, I had a strange urge to call my old therapist to tell him I was doing a-ok.

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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.