torture.

i've moved on from de clérambault's syndrome, now that there isn't even hope, i've developed a werther-complex.

Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals are happy, none are distressed like thee!" Then I read a passage in an ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart. I have so much to endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?

of course, that poet is alfred.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck what is wrong with me. i know what is wrong with me, but i will never tell. i will keep it inside until i have an ulcer to die from. :)

DENY DENY DENY

i'm breaking down. even mrs esteban knows i'm dying inside. i don't know how to distract myself from this flight. i mean, plight. i mean, saucy little choir boys. i'm sorry, that's actually unrelated.

am i aloneeeee?

im sick and tired of the way that i feel,
im sick of dreaming and its never for real.
im all alone with my deep thoughts.
im all alone with my heartache and my good intentions.

that song comes on just now as i writing this. i think i'm still lookign for signs.

I DONT HAVE CONTROL OVER MY OWN BRAIN ANYMORE. WTF IS WRONG WITH...





THIS.........