I guess this is one of those days when i have more clarity.

If I was here now in the olden days i doubt the blood wouldn’t be dripping.

It’s so fucking weird to know this shit and watch myself type it as I think it and as autonomous as that may sound, I know exactly what I’m saying.

I don’t really know what to think about myself any more but that’s only maybe because I’ve only just started thinking about myself.

I feel like I learnt or re learnt a whole load of self stuff that I’ve probably always been doing anyway.

I have no fucking idea what I am and even the thought of it scares the shit out of me.

How much of me is me? How much of me is my memories? How much of me is my parents? How much of me is my add any one of a thousand imputs.

I actually think I’m just me. I’m in my my bubble and other people make sure I stay on the right track.

To my detriment sometimes but mostly not, I ‘ve just mostly trusted other people and followed them to the cool shit.

Now I’m back from a smoke and have been remembering John Carpenter.

Don’t know what i was going to say, too off now

but do know that if I never ever cut or burn myself again, that doesn’t mean I won.

Dear me,

You’ll never read this and you’ll never do it but, ask for help.

don’t even know what help I need. Am I normal? Am I weird? I have no fucking scales to weight my shit against.

i love the idea that medical brain drugs can deal with my mind but the thought is too scary.

What if it shuts me up and calms me down but I’m not me any more.

What price would I pay? Answer be none. To be normal.

If being me was easy I wouldn’t be me.

FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK CUNTY FUCK FUCK FUCK TWAT WANK FUCK.

But it’s OK,

I pay this price but others benefit

You can’t give outside beauty if you’re giving it all inside.