Ugh. I have to write this stupid paper on the superstition in Huckleberry Finn. Honestly, I could care less. Fuck you Mark Twain for using a fake name and writing a shitty book with an even shittier ending. You probably wrote more shitty books, but I don't care enough to know.
So instead of writing it, I'm just going to go to bed. I ate pizza earlier and I feel so bloated. I feel like I'm retaining more water than the fucking Atlantic Ocean.
Why does food make you feel shitty?
Why is "shitty" my word of this blog??
Oh my gosh, I've stopped caring. Or it's not that I've stopped caring, I just want not to care.
Did I tell everyone yet? Oh, probably not. But I had a dream the other day that I killed people. I think I was either supposed to be in my neighborhood or my old high school. But wherever it was, it was great. Until people started investigating and finding out. And I never knew why I was killing people. I just was. But then when people started finding out, I started to feel guilty. I think I was trying not to care.
Speaking of trying not to care, I feel it my obligation as an avid blogger on this MCR website to report any mishaps in judgment on my end. As I am in a relationship, when I don't get input from my other half, it pisses me off. So I thought that he was pissed off at me because when I would ask him what was wrong he'd respond with "Nothing". Oh, how I hate that. Even though I know that guys literally have NOTHING on their minds at most times, it still pissed me off. So I took it upon myself to blame myself and go crying in the bathroom while he slept and cut. For the first time in...wow, I'd say about a year? I've been on the path of recovery for about 3 years now. Always relapsing at some point. Seven times on my leg. Then, when I got back in the bedroom, I had a panic attack and almost died because I woke him up on accident and he could not find my inhaler. So apparently panic attacks are a turn on for him (weirdy). So we had sex and I had to constantly try to cover up my leg. Which wasn't too hard because it was dark, but oh how he LOVES touching my behind and thighs. I thought I was going to have another panic attack trying to hide what I had just done to myself.
If you followed all of that, I commend you for being a trooper. I thought all of this up very fast and typed it very fast, so if you did not read it in a fast manor, go through and read it again. Then you are a super trooper.
Oh dear God, I feel as if I'm about to enter my manic mode...
