yes. I’m sick of myself because of it. I want purity so bad but I’m just so damn dirty. I HATE myself. And I feel guilty for that, seeing myself as nothing more than a victim of my darker self.
They say it’s not crazy to talk to yourself, that you’re only crazy if you talk back. I do that all the time.
i say things to myself and respond back to myself.
im ******* insane.
but yes I’m still drinking. I had a bottle southern comfort earlier with a big monster energy and now I can’t sleep. Got work in 4 hours. Man I’m stupid.

thanks, even though a big part of me feels like your words sound like a broken record a small, pure part of me wants to cry because someone gave enough of a **** to say that I’m not alone.
i am alone though. Everyday of my life I’m alone. I eat by myself, I sleep by myself, I talk to myself. I am all I have. There’s people around me but they are repulsed by me I can tell. I’m too sad and too angry and too damaged for them. I don’t play the game that they all play, finding contentment in an empty world. Or maybe it’s just empty to me.
My anger is palpable. It’s here and it’s alive and it wants all of me. I don’t think being angry is a bad thing really. I believe the strength in anger is immense. I just wish I could channel mine accordingly. Right now, lately, it just wants what it wants.

They don’t put the gun to your head and pull the trigger but they sure as hell put the bullets on the table in front of you then they say “do it” everyday for 28 years.
I don’t want a car, I need one. Without it I can not be a productive member of society. Can’t have a car without buying my way into classes. Can’t buy my way into classes without a job. Can’t get a job without physically going out and getting one. Can’t do that without buying a bus pass etc etc
for the record I have a job and all that, and I’m not blaming society completely for my problems, but they do force you to buy their ********.
you either buy it and play their game or you become an undesirable. That’s the way they make it. Believe me, I am a mess because of the choices I make, but society is the reason my choices are what they are.
society doesn’t force an angry kid to shoot up his school, it didn’t pick up the gun and pull the trigger it just made him feel inadequate and hateful until he did it himself. Society pokes you over and over again no matter how many times you tell it to stop then when you lash out and punch it in the face it puts you in jail.

it doesn’t surprise me, I’m right. Countless philosophers already knew these things years and years and years ago. Is it cynical? Yes. Is it negative? Yes. Is it infused with my own perception and so not one hundred percent accurate? Sure. But it is true. To deny the fact that society uses people to advance its own agenda is to deny what makes democracy work the way it works. You have to break some eggs to make an omelette. Society is pragmatic. My failure is necessary for someone else’s success. I don’t have to happy about that if I don’t want to be.

I’m just sick a ******* tired of being alone man.
why the **** is it me? I feel like the universe ******* hates me. My own mother stood over me and told me that she wished I was dead while I was shoveling pills into my mouth. She didn’t even try to stop me. Then the cops came and aimed at shotgun at my head. For what? Because I’m sad? I’ve never hurt anyone but myself but I’m treated like a criminal. I was caught driving buzzed now my life is a whirlwind of problems. I am so pissed off at everyone. People complain about having to drive too far. I ******* walk everywhere, alone. I sleep alone. I eat alone. If I ever make it back on my feet I swear, no ones getting **** from me.
I hurt no one. I did nothing to anyone but somehow, someway I will always be the ******* bad guy. Fine. Then I’ll be the ******* bad guy. The role is mine whether I want it or not. It just seems that the moment anything starts to go good at all it is immediately just destroyed for me. Im not allowed even the smallest taste of what everyone else is given such an abundance of. If God is real he must delight in seeing me suffer. And if he isn’t then there is no meaning to my suffering other than the meaning I create.
My mom... she’s my ******* mother and she said those things to me. I was always a good son. I’ve always been sweet and nice and loving and this ******* world has taken my kindness for weakness and ****** me over so bad. Now I fantasize about holding her hand on her death bed and telling her to get the **** off this planet and never come back. My own mother man. It pains me, all of it. I didn’t do anything to deserve to feel like this. I was a good kid. I’ve always been good. I’m just so incredibly infuriated because of the way things have turned out. I deserved better and I never got it. I still don’t and I still won’t until I grab the world by it’s neck and force it down and make it give me what I deserve.

ah man the tears are flowing so much...
i do know. Deep down I do know. I’m just so angry... I want recompense. I want validation. I want revenge. I want to be the one who ******* wins for once. And I try so hard to let that go. I just eventually drink or masturbate or smoke weed and I am allowed a momentary release. But then it just comes back. I’m trying, I’m trying so hard.
Thank you for your support. It means more than I can put into words. I’m done being this person. I will keep trying.

My mother frequently abused me throughout my life. She’s told me on several occasions that she wished I would get hit by a car walking home from school. She left a scar in my wrist where she grabbed me and squeezed with her nails right before letting me out of the car in front of my school. I can still hear the words she hissed out at the moment, “I ******* hate you you fat piece of shit” I wasn’t even fat, she was. More recently She stood over me while I was trying to off myself and encouraged me to do so. My father shares my name and likeness, I think she’s always hated me because of that. Funny thing is she’s so manipulative that she would make me believe she loved me when she wanted to. She used to beat me and belittle me in front of her friends and they did nothing. She made fun of my body even though it’s totally normal. She broke me. She broke me....
I can’t talk to women normally because of her. I can’t love women normally because of her. I can’t believe women when they tell me affectionate things because of her. I scorn women because of her... i fetishize abuse and brutality because of her....
I hate it. I hate the things she did to me. I hate that I think this way now. I hate that I can’t just talk to a girl without wanting to wrap my hands around her neck. I hate that I don’t know how to love someone now. I drink and smoke and drown myself in violent pornography to escape the hole she left in me. I know it’s wrong and that’s why I love it.
my addictions are a symptom of my abuse. I would never hurt anyone but I relish in the idea of it, especially when I’m drunk. I deserve to be beaten to a bloody pulp for the way I think. I will never understand what could possess someone to treat a young innocent boy like a punching bag especially when he came out of your body. Never.