think what I want, is just one last person to tell them how awesome/beautiful/wonderful/ even weird, they are.

I don’t need or can’t have the snugles of the world and spooning or being spooned to sleep.

So the best I can do when I’m like this is wish for one last person, that no matter how fucked out of my shit i am, I’m allowed to allowed to tell someone something beautiful about themselves with no repercussions.

I fcking hate myself and I’ll never fucking understnad me so shut the fuck up

Everything was groovy today but I I could sink my head and I do it when I squeeze my skull and I’m so overdue for the pain I feel like I should just do a random small one now to stave off whatever is coming.

Which artery is the carotid again? don’t need that don’t mean that but I need and feel a blood flow building.

The truth is I’m still scared no matter how pissed and high I am.

what do I think of myself right now?

I’ve just been to the window for a cheeky smoke, I did see the clock ish, it’s 3 something.

I was looking at the trees and thinking about this and, I have fuck all to do, today is Monday, I bought booze on purpose and got drunk and high just like all the olden days Mondays.

Is that bad?

I don’t know.

I’m fine with it until I ask or write in like this diary pseudo shrink.

I wish I could do like Kenneth Williams in his diaries when he sometimes analysed himself while writing truthfully about his day.

I don’t know who I am. No amount of talking to myself with ever solve that mystery.

I just do stuff and one day I’ll be dead and I’ll leave so much happy behind me.

I’m in that happy drunk stoner place so still don’t know if I like me or not.

I don’t think I have the ability to see an overview of myself like looking down on a finished jigsaw puzzle.

I can’t let them out. I can’t roll away the stone that covers the danger in the caves in the back.

They’ve had snippets more recently but no, fuck off. you’re not coming out, you didn’t define me, I made me who I am, not you you cunt.

I’m in charge of which of you comes out and which of you gets to fuck with me and none of you anymore but please stay quite under your rock, even your vibrations hurt.

I want to hurt myself so fucking much it’s unreal. Every time I buy the boozes i hope it will be tonight but it still isn’t.

I can’t do it on purpose to let the pain out on purpose when it’s more pre empting the pain rather than it’s actually there like I used to.

I’m only allowed to let it out when I absolutely have to, like danger point and Danger will happen if I don’t open the valve then.

Why can’t I just open it a bit, now and then?

Sometimes a slice of the knife is all it needs but people will not let me or be upset with me.

Maybe it’s my own fault this is building up to a countdown.

When you have one last lovely to get rid of and then, finally you can go to bed, you’ve got rid of it all. Who do you give it to?

I want it, I want it so much, I want the last one, or at least someone to give the last one to or even if I could just give it to myself.

I don’t get any one’s last words any more and that’s fine I can deal with that being a part of being me but, I still wish I could give somebody mine.

Even my most safest of people, it’s not that i can’t give them it’s that I don’t know if they’ll read them.

I feel so bad to think that but how can I not?

I was going to message someone anyone I’m in that place but no rules I’m starting to learn like I’m going for a walk every day even if I do sit on a bench in the park and smoke and write stuff.

I’m trying.

I just don’t know how to do things. I don’t know how to motivate myself. Why would I do all that outside physical stuff when I have a Wasteland to conquer or a spaceship to explore.

I know I’m doing something because lacing up my yellow laces Doc Martens has become part of the routine like the opposite of trying to break a habit, I’m trying to create one.

I think, since ‘the incident’ I’ve been trying to change. I at least buy strawberries and try and do bananas sometimes but, I need a focus, I need someone to keep me on course, I need the kind of help I don’t want.

I still haven’t grasped the earthly reality of how scared everyone was when i threw up all that blood and gunky stomach lining whatever weird shit.

I’ve just rolled one, I’m supposed to be writing a diary of honest stuff but it took me so long to roll I don’t know what I was talking abou tnever mind what mood I’m in.

Can I even be honest with myself or is this how I am honest? I think this even though i can’t do the above adding up.

I don’t think I know who I am enough any more to be able to write an honest diary.

I don’t know who I am any more based on my own view, the hippy kid in the 80s knew a fuck tone more about me than I ever do now.

I’ve become so much more since then and outside stuff but I no longer see myself the way I used to.

I trust me now but i liked me back then.

Ooooh, I looked got all grrr and fuck you I’m pressing send and going for a smoke to change the mood from you because you’ll never fucking know until you die.

It’s half 3 and I do have words left and I shouldn’t and it’s my own fault and I like being this full of giddy happy when it happens.

but again who to give it to and it’s almost like I fill myself up on purpose so that I’m not able to empty it and the bad thing can happen.

I don’t know what I want, except just to ‘do shit’ that’s all I’ve ever really done I think.

I think about that thing Hutch said once when he got the gist wrong but said, ‘you should try companionship’

I like that word, it doesn’t sound like sex or too much complicated stuff, it just sounds like a thing that’s there if you need it.

I think I’d like a companion now to cuddle to sleep. Just that extra bit of closeness to one single person

Massive thought path changes onto ‘other things’ bed time.

The last one got deleted I wrote it hours ago it doesn’t matter. i just looked at the time and it’s 3:24. it was the same time last night I think when I was writing and I looked at the clock.

Twice on the run it could be spooky but it’s bullshit. It’s not even a coincidence yet. but that’s how I used to love numbers and look for those patterns.

I’m not regressing or any backwards stuff and I’m certainly not evolving but there is something going on.

Who do I ask about the conversations in the head and to what level is it before it’s weird other than Joe but i can’t type him messages it’s to slow on the thing.

thats weird. A cloud just lifted and I have a cider left and a cheeky smoke so , cheer o pip.