Last night I cut myself more violently than I ever have. The last time I cut was a long time ago… And this morning I slept through both of my classes. One accidentally, one intentionally. I don’t want to die, so I guess my cutting myself had was for a few different reasons. I wanted to punish myself for having a hyperactive bitch of a brain, I wanted to draw blood, and I wanted to prove to myself that I don’t have to be little miss perfect (“it’s ok if i cut myself and smoke and drink and sleep around”).
So I’m lying in bed at 11:40am and I’m trying not to care that much. I also am researching… laugh at me if you will… (hippie) communes for me to live in or visit over the summer. Because why do school and stress and appearance and work and resumes, etc. matter again?
Oh and I’d like to point out that I’ve been taking Klonopin daily for about six weeks now… isn’t that a bit sad? I mean, yay, I’m not in the hospital, but my brain and liver are probably being fucked up by this narcotic that I’m practically dependent on.
Why can’t we all sit around the fire pit singing Kumbaya and Amazing Grace, holding hands, eating organic chocolate, drawing peace signs in the dirt with sticks?