Hey.
Someday, when I'm dead, I wonder if anyone will find this journal and read it and wonder how screwed up I really was, because of my likely-interpreted mental instability. I'm not so bad, though. I promise.
I mean I'm not that great, but I know people who are worse. Most of the people I know seem normal.
Wanna know what I am? I am toxic and dark and deeply damned and thoroughly damning. I keep pushing my friends away and it's pissing me off. I don't know how to not.
I just wrote about 20 paragraphs in a row of feeling sorry for myself. And then deleted. I need a t-shirt that says "DELETED" because that's what I do. I delete the uncomfortable. I delete what's good for me, what's bad for me, what makes me happy, what makes me sad. Delete. I'll probably delete this paragraph, too. This sentence. And this one.
No. I've just challenged myself to keep anything else that I write in this entry. So, screw it. I think I will end it all here.
Luna says hello. She belongs to no one, but the picture is mine, along with the graveyard crows.
