it's 4:20 AM, my damn flight was delayed twice. I weigh 103 pounds without trying, and I just thought I'd play around with my weight a little bit. But then I got into 90's really easily. And I was excited. What kind of sick fresh hell is this? Someone left me a random comment asking me why I cut, and it was so simple. Yet I didn't have an answer. I don't know anymore. I DRESS normal. Sometimes, I really do want to be so honest, so clean, and perfect, but then everything falls through when that little voice in my head starts nagging, "well it doens't count unless you're doing hard drugs regularly, and you're not, and what people don't know won't hurt them......." If it wasn't cutting, it was drinking, and then it became drinking while cutting, and then that became drugs and drinking, with the occasional cutting relapse, and dear god, am I really getting myself into this now? I can see it happening, I just don't really care. I should, but I don't. WHY can't I make myself care? The book Cut by Patricia McCormick made me cry. Not really because it was touching, or because I could relate to it or anything. Mostly it was because the main character was in an institution with a bunch of other "problem kids" and I realized I've been every damn kid in that book. My mom caught me with cigarettes again. This is the 2nd time- what the hell kind of luck do I have? Why can't I have a normal crutch, like writing or painting? speaking of ART me, being the psycho that I am got a sudden impulse to check my ex-boyfriends e-mail. I don't know why, but I did. so I checked it, and yay! theres a picture of his "girl" topless in an email attatchment WHORE FUCK FACED SLUT, FUCK YOU AND FUCK HIM AND FUCK EVERYTHING YOU REPRESENT IN MY LIFE AND FUCK THE FACT THAT HE'S HAPPY WITH YOU WHEN HE WASN'T WITH ME FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.