I don't know what to say. I can't say anything without crying. So maybe I should stop writing and then I'd stop crying. But I don't want to. I need to say something, I'll die here alone just because I couldn't face fucking typing. Wouldn't that be sweet justice for everyone I talk to all day long, every day, about the pointless things that float around in my mind for no reason whatsoever. If I felt like saying anything nice I would, believe me. But anyone who wants to be happy and read sugary sweet shit about what people I hung out with today can just fuck off. And stay away. I don't want to hear about how you like my diary. I don't want to fucking hear it. Why do you stay here? Why do still ask me these questions? Fucking tell me why you stick pins in my brain. Nothing makes sense, so don't expect this to. I don't want to make sense. I want to vent to the wide world about why I hate you and your stupid hair. I'm sorry, that's not to you. You know who you are. I can't believe I even thought I could get by today. I can't believe I thought I wouldn't do anything. I'm not that strong. Even me, who can lie perfectly to herself, can't say that. You sick freak. You sick sick bitch. Why the fuck did you think you'd be Ok? I'm sorry R.I.P. Peter Cook My daddy and protector. I love you. 1959-1997