Journal Entry: Delta

1... 2... 3... Breathe. 1... 2... 3... Breathe.
"You're fine". "You'll be fine." NO! Don't you fucking lie to me; six fucking years and it's been the same old Bullshit. six fucking years and everything is the same.

Nothing ever gets better, No one ever gets better and she is No Where to be found.

Don't you fucking stand there with those beautiful green eyes, and that perfect long hair of yours. You're too beautiful to even begin to understand what this shit is like. Each time I say this it gets worse, Each time this happens the fission explosion becomes exponentially more destructive. You become nothing more to me than collateral damage, a casualty that's barely on my conscience. I have no intention to hurt you, only myself. Just be aware you're standing in the splash zone.

I don't know what to change anymore other than obliterating hope all together. Just another unfortunate being, an autistic basket case. That is such a fucking stupid Cop-Out; way too general, way too simple. I just want a proper fucking label at least. I simply want to announce a singular diagnosis and be understood. But no, it instead takes 3 years of misunderstandings for anyone to begin to comprehend me. Most people don't manage to even make it that long. Doesn't really matter how "unique" "quirky" "special" anyone else is. That guarantees nothing. Actually, y'know what, it guarantees I'd be intrigued but that's the worst case scenario.

"Try Online" they say, there's tons of broken down toys waiting to be railed there. Even so, unless they're directly in front of me, it doesn't matter how much we talk or how many pictures we send, these digital paper dolls are nothing more than ego boosters . I cannot manage to genuinely care about someone that I can't physically feel beside me. These online Sirens are expendable free to disappear as they please and I won't be upset that they're gone. I'll be upset that there's no longer someone begging for me to be there. Call it what you want I frankly Don't give a shit how you feel about it really.  Yet, the moment someone is in front of me, giving me their full attention, with their straight black hair and abrasive smile, I am hooked. At that point, I don't even care if I can't touch them. That's all it takes for me to fall face first and wind up full of Hope.

No amount of logic can manage to stop this tsunami of stupidity. I can't seem to listen to anyone either. I feel so individualistic that I must figure something out for myself for anything to work.

I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME. BUT OF COURSE, I CAN'T EVEN HAVE THAT LUXURY TO MYSELF, WHAT THE FUCK. I'VE GOT THIS GODDAMN PARANOIA ALL OF THE FUCKING SUDDEN MAYBE ITS MY OWN NEUROTICISM COMING TO THE SURFACE WHO THE HELL KNOWS. I NEED BIGGER TOYS, THAT'S IT! NEW EDGES- MAYBE THAT'S JUST WHAT I NEED, TO SCULPT THIS WEIGHTY SHELL DOWN TO A WORK OF ART. MAYBE THEN, FINALLY, THIS CAN ALL BE OVER.

This feels like a supervillain origin story. So intense, so angry, so damaging but I am only frustrated. Even that fact takes at least a year of knowing me to understand that no matter how much I bark I will never bite. So if anyone else reads this I'll get shipped off to Ryker's Island. I am Harmless, I'm no Elliot Rodger. I don't have Red Shoe Laces. I'm no leader of Project Mayhem. Just someone who's suffering who's ready for it to be over is all. Nothing that anyone else on this wretched planet doesn't want as well. Every end is a beginning perhaps, sometimes you have to stare death in the eyes to appreciate what it means to be alive. So it's not such a bad thing after all. Don't you go and tell me that there's other things than this. You have no fucking idea what this feels like you beautiful bitch.