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 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

Cried myself to sleep last night. Haven’t done that in awhile. Just to give you an idea of how I feel lately.

I just wish something, anything would go right for once. I’m about to be homeless, which is going to force me to move in with my parents because all my friends ditched out on me the second things started to get rough, so I have nobody I can stay with. The “emergency housing” thing my social worker had me try for on Wednesday measures the waiting list in years, which does not a godsdamned thing for my homelessness. And don’t even get me started on my love life. That thing has been misery-in-the-making since it started. The latest is that I can’t get a date, no matter what I do. I’d ask the guy out, were it not for the fact that every time I asked the other person out, it was because they were way too weak to handle me, to deal with me. Is it really so bad that I just want an equal for once? Someone who doesn’t need to be taken care of. But yeah, that’s not my only problem, relationship-wise. As I said, all my friends decided I didn’t exist, save four (Aaron, Tyra, Max, and Lee). Nobody else gives a shit. They probably never did. Or if they do give a shit, it’s not enough of a shit to pick up the fucking phone and call me!

I’m never going to get onto social security, I’m never going to get back into Wright State, I’m never going to have a job that doesn’t make me want to kill myself, I will never be in a good place, ever, for the rest of my fucking life. I’d kill myself, save that fear of failing and getting stuck in that worthless hospital again. Fuck.

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

Okay, it seems that I’m right back to bouncing up and down, emotionally. I can sit and laugh and hang with Aaron and Tyra and Lee, but then feel like shit immediately after. It doesn’t help that Jim’s went from ignoring my existence to treating me like shit. He’s pissed that I haven’t moved, even though it’s his fault that I haven’t moved yet. He promised my mom that he’d get me boxes, and I assumed he would, what with promising to and such. Besides, if anybody in this apartment has a reason to be pissed off at somebody else in this apartment, it’s me at him. He never does chores. Ever. He might take out the trash in the kitchen if it’s overflowing. He doesn’t throw away any of the trash that sits next to the can, he doesn’t take out the trash from the bathroom (even though it’s nasty and overflowing 99% of the time). He doesn’t do dishes, sweep, mop, vacuum, clean the bathroom, clean up after himself, ANYTHING. Then the other night, he had the godsdamned nerve to ask me, who has no fucking money, if I’d do a load of towels because we were out of clean ones. Mind you, he asked this after putting his one load into the washer. Because he’s apparently only allowed to do one load a week, no matter how much is dirty. I wish he’d just grow up already. It’s not even just the chores and the laundry and the living-in-filth thing, either. Whenever I say or do something that isn’t fawning at his damn feet, he throws a temper tantrum. Seriously. I dunno, maybe it is a good thing I’m getting the hell out of here. Maybe once I’m not here to wipe his damn nose, he’ll learn to take responsibility for himself. Because he’s REALLY lacking that. His entire life right now is go to work (where he basically sits on his ass in front of a computer all day long), play video games, and go places with Heather or other friends, and sleep. And exactly one load of laundry a week, no more, no matter the circumstances. No chores. No real labor. No acting like a grown-up whatsoever. I am not his mom, so he needs to quit treating me like I’m supposed to take care of his every need. Fuckinghellshitdamnfuck! Now I can’t wait to move to a place that doesn’t make my guests feel like vomiting when they walk through the door. Oh, to live in a clean house again. It’ll be nice.

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

I feel like I’m being an emotional burden on everybody right now. Like that I’m actually incredibly annoying to be around, but once a person is stuck with me, they’re too nice to just tell me to fuck off, you know? Because that would make everything make sense. Why nobody ever calls me to hang out except for Aaron. I think he’s even doing it to be nice sometimes. I dunno. *shrugs* I go from numb, to wanting to cry, and back again constantly. It’s at completely random intervals, too. It doesn’t help matters any that I’m still completely terrified about moving back in with John. I didn’t cut before him, I only tried to commit suicide once before him, I was never hospitalized before him. I’m fairly certain that, while he’s not the source of my problems, he does make them far worse than they ever should have been. Whether he makes me pray for death every second I’m around him is on purpose or on accident, it still is.

Maybe I should learn to stop bugging people and to just keep to myself more. You know, get rid of AIM, stop trying to get people to call me and hang out. After all, I’ve learned that if I don’t constantly poke at a person, they forget that I exist ungodly quick. Everybody does. If there’s nothing blatant to remind them of me, I become not real. Just a memory. Maybe a memory of a memory. Unreal. Nonexistent. Never was. Seriously, if I stopped going online, if I moved away and stopped calling other people, after a few weeks, even a few days, I would no longer exist. I’d be wiped away, never having been. Are all people like that, or am I just special? I mean, I remember my friends when they’re not in my face. Why does nobody ever remember me? Maybe I don’t exist at all. Maybe I’m all part of somebody else’s dreams or something. A character in a novel that can be easily erased without the plot suffering at all. But if I’m not going to exist, I wish I’d stop being here. It’s far worse to not exist yet still be around, than it is to not exist in any way.

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

So, while I was waiting at the Social Security office on Friday, inspiration struck and I wrote a poem in my itty bitty notebook that I keep in my purse. Tell how badly you think it sucks?

Wishes Don’t Come True
When all hopes seem fake
And dreams are only something to wake up from
Possibility has its end
No good can come of this
Happiness is beyond my means
Striving for unreachable goals
Wanting to shine
Waiting for the sun
But stuck
Stuck right where I am
In the dark, the cold
Not future
No chance
No reality

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

I’m quite miserable at the moment. As you already know, I’m stuck moving back in with my parents, cuz I’m not strong enough to be able to hold down a job or be a person or whatever. Well, as if that weren’t torture enough for me (since that’s all my life seems to be lately), no, I found out how it could be so much worse. Mom and John are going to have a hard time being able to afford for me to live there with them. So John told me, over and over again, for almost half an hour. I’m pretty certain I’ll be getting that guilt trip on a daily basis, and an extra large helping of verbal abuse to go with it. So now, not only am I completely losing contact with everybody I know and love, and moving to bumfuck middle of nowhere, but now I’m going to be treated like the lowest piece of shit possible, and be lectured for failing at life. Yeah, that’ll be REALLY FUCKING GOOD for my depression.

The best part is, I have absolutely no other option. I can’t afford to stay with Jim (what with having zero income and all). I don’t know anybody I could couch hop on, because I can’t afford to pay for anything of my own. I’ll have to wait for Tuesday when I see my caseworker lady, see if that emergency housing she mentioned is available. Because this is definitely an emergency. I’ll take anything at this point. Crime-infested, roach infested, 20 roommates, I don’t care. Fuck, I’m so damn scared about moving in with my parents now. I just know every shred of sanity I’ve managed to gather these past few years will be torn to shreds and then shit on. I just hope when I start cutting again (when, not if, at the rate things are going), that I don’t get yelled at too much.

If I even knew of a couch to sleep on, I might be able to get cash from my parents, but that involves knowing of a couch. I’d only need it for a few months, until I know about SSD and SSI. God fucking damnit, I hope that emergency housing stuff is for serious, cuz I’m pretty sure that living on the street would be safer to my mental health right now than what I’m going to be forced into. I mean, they’re even going to take away my phone while I’m there to save money. No trips to Dayton, either, I’m guessing, unless someone else springs for gas (which will NOT happen). I am in hell. This just proves it.

Oh, and for those people that read my blog but don’t post, trust me, this is the time to reply, to write to me, call me, visit me, see me, keep me from thinking of my fate. Please, for the love of the gods and all that is holy, do NOT let me spend this last week of not-hell crying.

Oh gods, I don’t want to move there now, I really don’t. Before, it wasn’t so bad. I’d lose contact with everybody, but at least I’d be safe. But now, I don’t even get the safety. Fuck, my life is hell. I’m in hell. I must’ve done something really bad to deserve this. Oh gods, I’m so scared right now. I’m not exactly sure I’ll even survive living there now. In hell, one tries to escape. And my mom has a LOT of medicines that would make suicide a little too easy. I won’t be safe there. I’m not over-reacting, I’m serious. I won’t be safe in the least.

Oh gods, I’m going to die there, I just know it. Oh gods, oh gods. I don’t really want to die. Not like that. Oh gods, oh gods.

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

I’d commit suicide if I weren’t so afraid of failing and ending up in that hospital again.

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

I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life I hate my life.