Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I’m done trying to justify everything. People will believe whatever they want to, no matter how far from the truth it is, no matter how absurd it sounds. I’m done letting others think they’re allowed to dictate my life. The second you share anything about yourself online, that’s the second people think they know more about you than you know about yourself. They try to force their ideals down your throat, tell you that you should do everything their way, because they’re in control of you your life. And I’m done with it all.

I’m losing all internet connection on Saturday, and maybe that’s a good thing. I’m getting sick of the fact that most people online are idiots and ass holes that think they’re entitled to do whatever the hell it is they’re doing. 4-chan isn’t a website any more, it’s how almost everybody acts online. And I’m pretty certain I don’t want to be associated with any of it. Maybe this break from all things online will help me feel better, or maybe it’ll help me decide to delete this website and to stop using my LiveJournal. Either way, I think it’s what I needed to help me come to a decision.

I’m also thinking it’s a good thing that all the people who called themselves my friends offline deserted me long before the move. If I have no one to miss, I won’t feel as bad. And desert me they did. So maybe this is a blessing in disguise. At least, I can hope for that.

Throughout this whole ordeal, I’ve also learned to stop telling the truth online. If you tell people how you feel, they don’t put the effort into trying to help you, or talk to you about it, or give you support. But they DO call the cops on you, apparently. Because that requires no real effort, or actually caring. Thinking before acting is something that no one does online. Ever.

I need a vacation, from people, from the internet, from everybody telling me I’m not good enough and acting like it’s “help”. Because that’s what “you’re not trying hard enough” means when you are trying your hardest. Or it means “faking.” Either way, it’s an insult. But online, since people don’t have to look at your face when they tell you how horrible of a person you are, it’s standard practice.

So on Saturday, I’m moving back to Lakeview. If my “friends” want to contact me, they know my number. I don’t expect any calls, though. I’m losing all internet access whatsoever. Not that it ever helped before. At least this way, I won’t have as many people insulting me. Only myself.

I’m going to stop using this website now. This is my last entry until I decide if the scum is worth what little good that comes from all this. I still have a few months paid for, so I have my time to think. I’m pretty sure I already know my decision, though.

Goodbye, to those few that actually do care. And to those that don’t, you can stop pretending now.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

Why is it that everybody thinks that I know absolutely nothing about myself, or about anything else, ever? And for that matter, why do they think it best to repeatedly remind me of said fact? Do they really believe that if I’m told I’m faking everything I’ve ever done for my entire life, that somehow by some unknown feat of magic, I’ll go poof and everything will be a perfect little wonderland? Because yes, I don’t actually have depression, I’m just faking it, or I’m too lazy to get a job, or some other incredibly retarded reason. I definitely didn’t have a bad childhood, and I definitely had a whole bunch of friends who never abused my kindness or anything. Of course, why couldn’t I see it before? And I definitely didn’t drop out of high school shortly after trying to commit suicide because I couldn’t handle being around people. Definitely. The reason I’ve been in the hospital so many times up to now is that I’m just really lazy, and sanity takes far too much effort on my part. Of course. I know absolutely nothing about myself, and people that have either never met me before, or people who haven’t talked to me in over half a decade knows everything that’s going on in my head. Oh wait, I forgot, there isn’t anything going on in my head, because I’ve been faking it this whole time. My apologies, I forgot. Or was it forgot to fake it? I’m not sure at this point.

But you know what? Fuck you, every fucking cumcatching bastard fuckhead that thinks they’re god to me just because they have a fucking mouth to speak with or fingers to type with. I hope you fucking die, every single fucking one of you shitfaces, and I hope it’s in the most painful way possible. I hope you get raped to death by a gang of rabid gorillas covered in their own feces. You got that, fuckfaces?

I am sick and fucking tired of people treating me like a stupid child with no thoughts or feelings of my own. I mean, I pretend that they have coherent thoughts, so why can’t they return the favor? Seriously, I am sick of this whole fucking planet, filled with the fucking stupid human race. As soon as I figure out how to kill every single human on this entire fucking planet, I’m going to enjoy pushing that godsdamned button.

And for the intellectually impaired: most of the first paragraph was sarcasm. You’ve heard of that, right?

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I had the cops called on me last night for being too suicidal.

As usual, I put how bad I felt in my Facebook status, hoping somebody would read the damn thing and actually give a shit. Call me up, give me a hug, hang with me. Something personal, you know? Well, one of my Facebook friends called the cops on me. Mind you, this had to have been at least the 20th time I’ve written on just Facebook alone how I feel suicidal constantly. So apparently the other few dozen times were just practice?

So it was, like, 3am when the cops knocked on the door. Since I had fresh wounds on my arm (I’ve been cutting lately), or maybe even if I hadn’t, they forced me to go to the hospital. I had to ride in the back of the fucking cop car! I never want to do that ever again.

Then I get to the ER, and I get to sit in the fucking psych ward ER set up thing for nine fucking hours, getting poked and prodded occasionally, and getting to talk to someone every few hours. They couldn’t do a damn thing for me (because just feeling suicidal isn’t ever enough to get admitted), so they basically told me to go to my appointment on Tuesday and sent me home. Mind you, the cops had brought me, so I had no ride home. Aaron was at work, and I don’t really have any other friends with a car (Tyra and Max use the bus). So I had to walk the three or four miles home from the fucking hospital.

The best part about this all? I had a fever of 100 degrees during the entire time (it had went down to 99.6 by the time I left the hospital, so that’s what I got to walk home with). Seeing as how my average temperature when I’m not sick is about 95 or 96 degrees, that means I was really sick.

The ONLY good news that came out of this is that I got my move date pushed back to next Saturday. Now I don’t hafta find a place to crash Monday night so I can make my psychiatrist appointment.

But still, FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I want to fucking die. I want to slit my wrists, and bleed the fuck out. But does anyone care? No, they don’t even fucking notice. I’m about to cry, and I don’t even know why. I don’t need a reason to cry any more, a reason to be suicidal. My last day on earth tomorrow, and I’m wishing I were just dead already. Fuck, I just want to die. Prayers don’t come true, wishes don’t either, otherwise I’d've gotten mine long ago. Just… someone kill me, please? I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I feel like I have all these broken fragments floating around in my body. The thing is, there aren’t enough fragments to make an entire personality. I’m starting to wonder if there ever was. So here I am, grasping at each piece, trying to get it to fit together with any of the other pieces, and it’s impossible. Each piece is by itself, without ever fitting with anything else. I’m starting to think this is what true insanity feels like. I can’t be me any more (if there was ever a me to be to start with). I have one dominant trait for a short amount of time, with nothing extra like I’m supposed to have. I think I’m becoming two-dimensional, and it’s really quite a scary thought. Human beings, normal people, they have many different sides to their personality, and here I am, unable to keep anything stable inside for more than a few seconds at a time. It’s not just my emotions any more, it’s everything there is about me. Those fragments are floating off into space, never to return. I’m losing myself, all of myself, and there’s nothing I can possibly do to fix it. I’m empty inside most of the time, empty and dead. I can’t feel things, I can’t keep feeling things. I get depressed, but it’s gone before I can experience it. Same goes for happiness, disappointment, hatred, love, fear, everything. I AM NOT A PERSON!

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

The Dante’s Inferno Test has banished you to the Seventh Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Low
Level 2 (Lustful)	High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Moderate
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Very High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	High
Level 7 (Violent)	Extreme
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Very High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	High

Take the Dante’s Inferno Hell Test

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

The punishment for Pride is to have nothing to be proud of.

But how to achieve it? Well, there are the obvious things like making her unattractive, and to not let her be wealthy. Those are the obvious ones. But what of the rest? A short attention span is the solution. If she can’t stay interested in anything long enough to make her amazingly good at it, it will keep her from being prideful. An even worse torture is to give her the skills that would’ve made her better than most, had she the attention for it. Intelligence to spare, but easily bored by most anything. Grace and reflexes, but easily giving up. And endless curiosity, so that she’s always finding something new to sidetrack her from getting really good at what she’s currently doing. That last one is almost required. The best part is, she already had the aversion to boredom going in.

The ultimate punishment for the ultimate sin.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

Love? She had no way to understand the concept. Some who had shared her bed had called that love, but she was fairly certain the woman (sorry, the goddess) lecturing her did not quite mean that particular type of love. According to the flimsy woman (definitely not a warrior’s build), it was something felt in the heart, especially in mortals. It was just so confusing the way she was explaining it. When you wanted something, you just took it, right? None of this bullshit “wooing” that seemed to be what the woman was getting at. But no matter how many times she said what a foreign idea it was to her, the goddess kept explaining it like something she should be feeling. Feelings, now there was something she had no use for. Stupid, drippy things, making people as stupid as the feeling. Not for her, definitely.

But Aphrodite would just not give up. Something about being chosen a really long time ago, about her lives being followed and full of those drippy things. Ha! Nothing could conquer her, especially nothing such as that! She’d die by the sword, by a mage’s hand, not by falling in love. Sounded unpleasant.

“But you must know it, feel it, embrace it.”

“Not feeling it,” she replied, sticking out her tongue. While gods did usually deserve respect, this one didn’t seem to warrant it.

“I’ve brought them all together. You’ll meet them, trust me. And there will be connections. You won’t be able to deny me any more, once you feel it.”

Damn, those stupid mortal existences she was supposed to have. This woman was going to mess them all up. She already knew the connections forged before her time would pull at others, bring them into her lives, but she didn’t realize it’d be by way of drippy emotions.

“The whole range of my emotions, you will go through them all. Unrequited, as well as heartbreak. Every degree of my touch you will feel on your heart.”

“No!” She did NOT like where this conversation was going.

“There will be the good side of my hand as well, in these emotions. You will experience the entire spectrum of my love. It will hurt at times, but it will be a pain that is far worth it.”

“Why would I subject myself to such pain? What if I just choose not to feel it?”

“When the time comes, you will ask for it.”

“Never!”

The woman smiled at that, sinking her stomach as far as it could go. “Never say never.” Then, as with most gods that she had met, the goddess was no longer there.

“I would never ask to be tortured in such a way.”

Tangled in the sheets, he said “I love you” to her and her heart melted. He kept saying it, and she was on cloud nine. She could never think of anything that would make her happier. Now we can date! Well… as soon as I break up with my boyfriend, at least. But he said he LOVED me!

Guilt over said boyfriend kept her from going any farther than making out, and when she said no, he stopped everything. He was pissed off at her, she could tell that. He wouldn’t be throwing daggers at that cardboard box if he weren’t. Did I fuck up that badly?

He told her he wouldn’t date her a few days later, when she asked. He said he didn’t have normal emotions, or some such shit. He was like a robot, according to him. He just took in information. He’d be bad for her. The days and weeks after that were hell. The worst part was, no matter how much of an ass hole he was to her, how many girls he dated, she was still in love with him. It tore her insides apart, but if he’d just said “I love you” again, all would be completely forgiven.

“Why did you say it?” she asked him. “Why did you have to say ‘I love you’?”

“To see if I could.” He responded. She actually felt her heart shatter. Every breath, she felt those shards of glass, covered in acid, pressing into her lungs.

“I’m sorry,” she said through tears. “I’m just not in love with you any more.” Her now ex boyfriend didn’t take that too well, but it was the truth. She had thought she wanted him, but it only lasted a few months, not the forever she was hoping for. It never did last.

Passion; there was plenty of that. His kisses were… electric. She assumed it was love, even though the smell was off. That was one of her weird quirks, the smell of guys she liked. He smelled like ketchup or salsa or something, and it was unappetizing. But damn if she wasn’t drawn to him. He was fairly drawn to her as well, judging by how often he pursued her. If only he didn’t have a girlfriend. But the smell, she just couldn’t quite get past it. He ended up not being good for her any way, ended up being a total jerk, always complaining about something.

She was depressed, that was damn certain. Kicked out of college, couldn’t seem to keep a job no matter how hard she tried. At the library, she met a boy (and that was all he felt like, a boy). She went too far, had sex with him. She hadn’t even known him a week. It killed her inside. She melted down completely. Couldn’t cope with things. What was wrong with her?

“I call him to me, the one meant for me.” She didn’t know where the words came from, but she said them anyway. Very powerful stuff.

He seemed great in the beginning. He made it past the usual three-month mark, so that had to be a sign, right? Even lasted past the year mark. But was she really happy? She lied to herself about being in love with him for the last few months of the relationship. She just wanted to feel love that badly.

“Gods damn it! The bitch was right!”

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

You ever get one of those days where nonexistence sounds like a good idea? Yeah, today’s one of those. I didn’t realize I was taking this being-single thing so seriously. I mean, I shouldn’t be this lonely without a significant other, right? But I am. And boy, is it pissing me off to no end. >_< I think my choices in men/women are kinda what's been doing me in, though. I've noticed I always go after the ones I can't have, or the ones I don't want. Baltes, couldn't have. Matt, didn't want. Plappert, couldn't have. Jim, didn't want. And the theme just keeps on popping up. I wish I could just figure out a way to get rid of my dating bad luck. Cuz I've always been unlucky when it came to dating, or even a social life in general. Maybe I need to find Lady Luck and piss on her, then uppercut Aphrodite. Maybe that would help. Or at least help me feel better.

In other, less-emo news, I might have a chance of staying in Dayton. My therapist was talking about these different shelters that I might be able to get into. I'm seeing the case-worker lady on Monday, so we can discuss a game plan then. ^_^

Oh, and I also started playing Final Fantasy VI last night. I fully blame Max. He's been harping on me to play it for damn near the entire time I've known him. I forgot how fun the FF games are, though. Not gonna get much sleep with that game waiting to be played now. Better than getting sleep and having nightmares, I guess.

Speaking of nightmares, I need to get a new dream catcher. I didn't have nightmares the entire time I had my old one, but lately I keep having them. The last one was only a few nights ago. I was in a bathroom with the lights off, and someone along the lines of Bloody Mary showed up. Now, I've had a fear of mirrors (especially ones in completely dark rooms) for most of my life, so this was actually one of my more frightening dreams. I've also started seeing the things in the mirror again, but let's not get into that.

So yeah, back to the self hatred. I'm pretty sure I have one of those social disorder thingies. Like, massive anxiety and such. So, when I go out, I get really self conscious. Not fun. I say one stupid thing, and agonize over it for hours, months, even years. But if I don't socialize, it kills me even more. So I guess it's the lesser of two evils. And yeah, still really lonely. I wish Max were single (and actually thought of me in that way). Oh well, quickly learning that I shouldn't listen when my heart skips a beat. >_<

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

Okay, so there’s this Facebook application I use called “Fortune Products.” One of the bits in that big all-encompassing title are these love-themed fortune cookies. Well, they keep giving me these oddly appropriate ones. This is just the latest (for those who don’t know yet, the guy I really turned me down today).

Wee bit in the way of freaky, no?

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

The punishment for Pride is to have nothing to be proud of.

She was certainly proud, that was a well-known fact. She was the best at magic, was the mightiest warrior. She had grown so old and developed her powers so much that she could have everything she wanted at the snap of fingers. Great old spells, the ones that took many powerful being to cast together, she did on her own with better results than the groups. Wanted by all men, envied by all women (and wanted by most of them, as well), she was everything.

But she didn’t care. She’d had the power for so long it no longer made a difference. She was bored with it. Where is the pleasure in a thing if all that needs to be done to get it is snap your fingers? It was boring, so very boring. Even killing had grown dull. No man could best her at battle, and any man that tried ended up in her bed or in a grave (sometimes both in that order).

Her wings were sleek, large, powerful. She was one of the few that knew how to use them as a weapon as well as a shield. She would go into battle without weapons, arm tied behind her back with rope that would bind even her, just to show off. Her body was flawless, and if even that couldn’t entice who or what she wanted, she could change it at will to whatever she desired. It was such a good illusion that it could even fool others of her kind. She knew every weapon, was a master at each, but preferred daggers and black aura to do her battles, because you had to get that much closer to use them properly. But she was bored with it, with the battlefield, with carnal pleasures.

She chose to be punished. She didn’t care what they were punishing her for, it would just be something different. But she had earned the punishment, had been full of pride for so long it was entwined with every fiber of her being. She only got the punishment which she deserved. She may have went along willingly, but a punishment it was.

The punishment for Pride is to have nothing to be proud of. And she lives with it every day.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I seem to be entering into another one of those peaceful, contemplative states again. Unlike last time, I’m not taking this as a sign that I’m “cured” and quit my treatment. Instead, I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Moving to Lakeview is an inevitable step. I can hate it and be depressed about it all I want, but I’m stuck doing it. John can try and make it worse (and believe me, he will try his hardest), but he can only succeed if I let him. I’ll have my books to read, and I’ll hopefully be able to beg my mom for gas money to come into town a few times a month. I’ll try for Social Security, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll try harder. I’ll serve my sentence, because the gods know I deserve some form of punishment (I’d get into why, but it’d take at least twenty pages, if not more so). I will go through all this, I will try and get healthy, and I will come back to Dayton. I will once again appreciate this place as a man dying of thirst appreciates an endless supply of ice cold water. I will get healthy, and some day I might be what’s considered normal, mentally. And while most of my “friends” deserve those quotation marks, the ones who truly care will be by my side as often as possible.

My goal for this time up in Lakeview is to survive. I will read, I will write, I will play all the way through Final Fantasy VI so Max will get off my back, and I will survive. I just need to keep reminding myself of that. And maybe take up meditation again. That’s helped before, it might help now.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I’m starting to have hope again, and that’s even scarier than not having any. I mean, some things I know will never be to my liking, but those I can get over, right? I mean hell, I got over Baltes, didn’t I? Though admittedly, I only did because of what he told me when I asked why he had said he loved me. “To see if I could.” That bastard. But yeah, over him (even if he does occasionally pop up in my dreams). So that means I can get over those damn heart skipping moments, too. Because my heart lies to me, tells me things that aren’t real, makes me feel magnets and such when I don’t deserve them, and can’t have them anyway. I mean, I’ll eventually have to find some guy (or girl) who I can stay with for the long haul, right? I mean, it’s hard to understand what anybody would see in me, what with me being fat and ugly and crazy, but somebody will eventually come along that will forgive me my flaws, right? I just pray that I won’t be alone forever. That sense of dread behind that feeling is false, right?

But I digress. What I have hope about is that I might actually get back into Wright State. A dream for the last four years, that dangling carrot that was always lowered into my view only to be yanked away and rip pieces of my soul with it. Am I actually crazy enough to get onto Social Security? Because I’m pretty sure that’ll be the only way I can ever afford to go back. I owe, between Wright State bills and loans, about $70,000 or so at this point. Not exactly easy to pay off something like that making minimum wage and paying other bills at the same time, is it? But at least if I get onto SSI or SSD, I can start paying it off. I’m so terrified that it won’t go through, though. I was turned down the last time I tried for Social Security. I’ve been hospitalized twice since then, though, and haven’t kept a job longer than four months for the span of my entire life. I don’t know, I’m just so afraid any more. My entire life will be decided in the next few months, and I’ve reached the point where I have no more say in the matter. My fate now lies in the hands of government officials (and we all know fucked up those people are). Gods, I’m just so scared.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I’m getting so scared, the closer it gets to Friday (which is the last day here before getting booted up to hell). I mean, I’m un-medicated, I won’t get to see a therapist (and if I do, it’ll be back at that place in Bellefontaine, which sucked cuz that bitch psychiatrist never fucking listened to a word I said, ever), I’ll lose all contact with what few friends I have, and worse yet, I’ll be under the tyrannical rule of John, who’ll hate me even more than before, because they can’t really afford to have me there in the first place. Oh, joy.

I mean, it’s bad enough that I’m not going to have internet access (I can’t even go to the library, due to a dispute over them losing a DVD, and me not wanting to pay for it for them, especially after they insulted me by writing bullshit in my profile thing on the computer), but I’m not even going to have a fucking phone! John said he’s going to turn it off to save the $40 or so a month that it costs. So it’ll pretty much be slave labor, day in and day out, with the occasional respite if my friends come to visit me or if I can afford to go visit them.

My left forearm is covered in cut marks from the piece of glass I cut myself with on Wednesday night. Maybe I should go back into the hospital. I mean, it’s the second to last place I want to be, but at least I’d be getting medicine, and maybe this time, if I raise enough of a fuss, they’ll actually help me figure out what to do about my debt and such, instead of telling me “Well, we can give you a phone book.” Maybe since I’ll be homeless when I go in, they’ll help me find a place to live that isn’t Lakeview (which is, not surprisingly, the place I’d least like to be). Maybe now that Lakeview is looming in the not-so-distant future, the incompetent hospital won’t be such a bad place. And maybe people will actually fucking call and visit this time! Yeah, right. Like anybody’d want to visit me? Even Aaron didn’t call me, and he was one of the 8 or so people I texted the telephone number to four or five days before I left.

I want to cry again. I want to cut again. I’m just not in a good place right now. It seems as if this life was made specifically for my torture. I know that some of this is the depression and the bi-polar talking, but I’m pretty sure even completely mentally healthy, I’d be massive fucked in this situation. Well, if I were sane enough to work jobs that devalue you as a human being and make you as worthless as possible, I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m in. I’d still have an ass hole ex-boyfriend for a roommate, and I’d still be the only person in the apartment who ever does any chores, but at least I’d have a dead-end job to pay the bills and not much else.

Yeah, I’m definitely suicidal again.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I want to cut so fucking badly right now. All everybody does is tell me that I have no choices, no other way to exist. My only option is to move in with mom and John and die inside. Or I could take pills and die on the outside as well. If I do move in with them, I’m sure I’ll have both before long. And no, I am not doing this for attention (because even if I were, nobody fucking cares enough to give me attention). I’m only stating the obvious. If I have no psychological help, and have nothing to look forward to and no hope, I WILL try to commit suicide until I succeed. That’s what’s happened every other time I was like this. No, not like this, I’ve never been this bad. It’s taking everything in me to not go in that bathroom and swallow as much stuff as I can find. I keep having to remind myself that if I fail, it’s right back to that fucking hospital again. The place that didn’t see me as a human being, but as a walking dollar sign. I am not going back there ever again. I just… I want death, it’s my only hope at this point. I mean, depending on which religion is right, I’m sure that whatever I get for committing suicide can’t be nearly as bad as what I get for not committing suicide. Fuck, I want to cut, to take pills. I’m sure I could find enough stuff to stop my heart. I know what we have in this house that would kill me, I know the right dosage. I’m just so afraid of trying and failing. I do NOT want to go back to that fucking worthless hospital. I have nothing, and the people who try to convince me otherwise keep giving me bullshit that wouldn’t convince a gullible idiot. Maybe if I just cut a little instead of taking pills? Maybe that would help me feel better? Cuz my mom telling me I should just get a job sure as hell ain’t making feel good. If I just had a few more weeks, I could maybe figure something out. If I could just get onto welfare maybe, or onto Social Security… But that’ll never happen, because I’m not sick enough. Wanting to kill yourself every second of every day isn’t sick enough in this fucking country! Fuck it, if I don’t at least see blood, I’m going to go even more insane.

The funny part is, nobody that can actually help me will ever read this. They never read any of my other entries, why start with this one?

Anybody wanna see some pictures of the blood when I’m done?

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

I’m currently conducting an experiment in my oven. Seeing as how I have no money, and Jim doesn’t buy much of any groceries whatsoever (at least nothing I can eat), I’ve been hungry a lot these past few days. Well, out of extreme desperation, I’m trying to make something out of what I have. I used a couple boneless skinless chicken breasts, and put them (as well as a whole bag of broccoli) in a baking dish with some olive oil and vegetable oil, a butt-ton of parsley, some garlic powder, a bit of paprika, and some Italian herbs on top. I’m baking it at 400° until it looks done, and I’m planning on stirring it fairly often. Hopefully, I’ll get lucky and it’ll turn out edible. I’ll make sure to post my results later. If it looks and tastes really good, I might even go full-tilt and post a picture. I’d post the recipe, too, but I’m a bad cook and never measure anything. Unless I’m following a recipe with measurements… Anyway, wish me good luck, cuz I’m really hungry. ^_^

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

It’s the one I’ve been keeping from everybody, sometimes even from myself. I’m pretty sure most of the people who’ve met me, who’ve known me for any length of time whatsoever, will think I’m lying through my teeth, but it’s true, I promise you.

I’m not good with people, at all. I don’t have very good social skills, I’m not usually comfortable around people, and I’m very insecure in any social situation I’m ever in.

Now, I know you may be calling “bullshit” on this very loudly by now, but it’s completely true. I’m just very, very good at lying. Over the years, I’ve learned to fake being a people person. I found out long ago that that’s what people want me to be, and I made myself into it. It took lots of practice, but I eventually learned to do it perfectly. I’m still that frightened, insecure girl underneath, no matter how at ease I seem, how natural I look.

I’m sick of keeping this secret. It’s gotten far too exhausting to fake it lately, what with every single thing going wrong in every way imaginable, all at once. So, I’m done with faking. It’s one of the reasons no one ever wants to hang out with me, I’m sure. They see the facade I’ve put up, and then don’t understand why I don’t call them to hang. Well, the secret’s been revealed: I don’t call people because I don’t feel comfortable doing so. It scares the living shit out of me to take that plunge into the unknown. I’m so afraid that they’ll say no, that they’ll yell at me for bothering them. It terrifies me. But nobody knows that it’s one of the scariest things in my world, so instead, they get pissed off at me for not calling them, and for being sad that no one calls me. I guess there’s no helping it. Nobody cares enough to take that extra second to ask me why I don’t call them. No, that’s asking far too much. Instead, I just get to curl in on myself, lonely and unable to fix the situation.

So now that you all know how terrified I am of making the first move, I’m sure you’ll all look down on me for it. And I know damn well I won’t be getting any calls to invite me to hang. Because that would involve my offline “friends” actually reading this. I get more comments in here from people I’ve never met in person than I do people I know in real life. At least ten times as many. How sad is that? It just goes to show I don’t have good friends, not that many at least. Except for on the computer. I’d say I just pick the wrong people, but I’m starting to wonder if the right ones exist. Offline “friends” have been doing this exact same thing to me for my entire life, pretty much. Last time I had good friends in decent numbers was 3rd grade.

Originally published at VampAmber's Clutter. Please leave any comments there.

The incredibly wonderful lady over at A Book Blogger’s Diary is giving away enough to books to keep me quite for hours, if not days. The give-away I linked to (there’re more, so make sure to check out the rest of her site, too) is for ten different, all interesting sounding, books. Oh yes, believe you me, I am drooling quite a bit over this one. The almost-as-wonderful people sponsoring this bibliogiveaway are the nice people over at Hachette Books, so give them a perusal as well. But anyway, yeah, ten free books. Ten of them. Ooooooooooooooooooh……………….