I had planned to open all my “bad” mail at work last night, but instead found myself stewing in a poisonous, vile, black rage. I’m going to have to lance this emotional boil soon so that I can drain all the foul self hatred I have going on, clean it out, and pack it full of a sterile overhaul so I can be rid of this heinous anger once and for all. I don’t have the money for therapy, so since the ibogaine is not going to be happening for me, I hope to fuck Dave hurries the hell up getting my shrooms. I’ll probably have to wait a goddamned month or so, seeing as how it takes his source fucking forever. Last night at work all I could do was think about how much I hated myself, and fuck me for letting me get so God almighty despicable FAT! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! GOD YOU’RE AN UGLY GODDAMNED PIG, YOU DISGUST ME! HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?
I wanted to perform self multilation, pound my fist repeatedly into my stomach and thighs like I used to or take a pen and slam it down into my palms. You, stupid, nauseous, despicable HIPPO! I wanted to slam my fist into the wall, but I didn’t. The thoughts were there like old times, only not the physical abuse. This is NOT like drugs, food is everywhere, people shoving it in my face at social functions and fuck at least when I was on meth I was protected. Do you want to go back on meth? I asked myself. No, came the answer. Well what do you want? I don’t know. I want this imposter going around disguised as me to die a slow, painful death, but there is nothing I can do, I’ve tried and now I’m stuck and I hate this person. Sigh. No money for a therapist. I’m going to have to act as my own. Rent a motel room, take a generous dose of shrooms, get some serious Q and A going on, fix what is wrong, and lance this evil that lurks within me because if I don’t the cancer is going to eat me up and I’ll be nothing but a vile disease.
I wanted to perform self multilation, pound my fist repeatedly into my stomach and thighs like I used to or take a pen and slam it down into my palms. You, stupid, nauseous, despicable HIPPO! I wanted to slam my fist into the wall, but I didn’t. The thoughts were there like old times, only not the physical abuse. This is NOT like drugs, food is everywhere, people shoving it in my face at social functions and fuck at least when I was on meth I was protected. Do you want to go back on meth? I asked myself. No, came the answer. Well what do you want? I don’t know. I want this imposter going around disguised as me to die a slow, painful death, but there is nothing I can do, I’ve tried and now I’m stuck and I hate this person. Sigh. No money for a therapist. I’m going to have to act as my own. Rent a motel room, take a generous dose of shrooms, get some serious Q and A going on, fix what is wrong, and lance this evil that lurks within me because if I don’t the cancer is going to eat me up and I’ll be nothing but a vile disease.