I've never thought of myself as a good person. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because of how fucked up my parents relationship was when I was growing up. I really don't know. I've never made my life about self sacrifice for others. As if that's the only thing worth doing. I'm really confused. Maybe I'm dirt poor because I would be terrible with money. I'm feeling sick too. My mother is worse. I'm not asking for a perfect life. I just don't want to be afraid constantly and in mental and physical pain anymore. I guess that's unreasonable. The night times are the hardest. I don't think I can survive being homeless in the street. I'm not tough like everyone I've ever known. I was happy somewhat when I visited art galleries and museums. Life seemed worth living. The crazy actually goes away when I'm talking about art, music, sculpture, literature, movies. It gets worse when I'm writing. Now I'm just blithering on. I can't possibly good when I hate all the shit I have to do to be good... I don't have a clue about anything.