I slept with him one last time in his Williamsburg loft apartment. Got up. I’ve got to go to work. Stay. I can’t. Please stay. And I don’t really work at a bar. Huh. I don’t work at a bar. Where do you work. I’m a prostitute (long pause) I’ll let myself out. Tears on the train. The end.
DIE HUMAN SCUM
RSSPosts tagged with "personal"
all my possible soul mates are dead
I’m just an awesome person with shit social skills
it was a mixture of hating people so much because they didn’t live up to my expectations, and just being so fed up with being around the same kind of idiot all the time. everyone’s just a carbon copy of one another. It was obvious in my face and how i reacted to people, that i couldn’t stand them.
- Kurt Cobain (via lyssaskywalker)
I hate it when people with twenty thousand billion followers get genuine anon asks asking for serious help and they give the shittiest answers and I could and would answer with a freakin five page essay but don’t want to geg in.
I feel far too intelligent to relate to the majority of this earth but too dumb for the most intellectual and creative ones
my sarcasm is an aid to deflect intimacy and mask insecurity
In depression, the pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come- not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute. If there is mild relief, one knows that it is only temporary; more pain will follow. It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul. So the decision-making of daily life involves not, as in normal affairs, shifting from one annoying situation to another less annoying- or from discomfort to relative comfort, or from boredom to activity- but moving from pain to pain. One does not abandon, even briefly, one’s bed of nails, but is attached to it wherever one goes. And this results in a striking experience- one which I have called, borrowing military terminology, the situation of the walking wounded. For in virtually any other serious sickness, a patient who felt similar devistation would be lying flat in bed, possibly sedated and hooked up to the tubes and wires of life-support systems, but at the very least in a posture of repose and in an isolated setting. His invalidism would be necessary, unquestioned and honorably attained. However, the sufferer from depression has no such option and therefore finds himself, like a walking casualty of war, thrust into the most intolerable social and family situations. There he must, despite the anguish devouring his brain, present a face approximating the one that is associated with ordinary events and companionship. He must try to utter small talk, and be responsive to questions, and knowingly nod and frown and, God help him, even smile. But it is a fierce trial attempting to speak a few simple words.
- ― William Styron, Darkness Visible (via bulimiserable)
I always tend to think of bulimia as the passionate disorder. We are rotting inside out, screaming inside out, and bleeding inside out. We paint the toilets with our vomit because it calms us down when we are seeking and yearning.
There is so much that I would like to do that I don’t know where to begin. I have lived a thousand lives in my head, my head is chaotic. I’m always pacing deep within. Bulimia, however, brings me back down to earth. It puts me in my place and I realise that I am nothing. I haven’t lived at all.
Well the optimism lasted for a few hours, better than nothing I suppose. I need a push towards the right direction —I don’t care which. I just need something to happen. Death? Life? What exacctly? I must know what my mind, heart, and soul desires. I’m exhausted of nothingness.
I love this bit-“I just need something to happen. Death? Life?”
I hate being in between the two, stuck in limbo, never quite being alive or dead..
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