You’d be better off not reading this.

I feel sick. Sick like I’m going to pass out. Sick like I’m going to vomit. The incessant circle of thoughts follow me throughout this hot empty apartment. I hate myself. I really really hate myself. My arm hurts. I think the bleeding has clogged. My eyes are swollen. The light rays brave enough to bolster past the closed blinds hit my eye with blinding rage. I can’t stand it anymore. I rub my hands in dismay. I hate myself. I hate feeling this way. I can’t find the thread to this anger to tear it all away. I feel hopeless. Hopelessly angry. Nobody understands me. I’m not always like this. What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Why am I so angry? I hate myself. I hate my perfectly normal life. I hate emotions. I hate feelings. I hate jealousy. I’ve been here twenty years and I don’t have anything figured out. Nothing. I’m such a miserable failure. I don’t even remember the last time I was happy. Nothing excites me. Everything is dull. Everything is a waste of time. I hate this. I hate myself. I’d suicide if it wasn’t so permanent. I can’t commit. I can’t commit myself to suicide. I can’t even commit myself to the breakfast menu at Denny’s. I’m so embarrasing. I’m so rageful. I’m so angry. God, I hate myself. There is no God. Or at least, we wouldn’t get along anyway. I’m so tired. I’m exhausted. I don’t know what to do. I can’t feel this way forever. There needs to be release. There needs to be something. This can’t be life. This can’t be real. I’m losing it. I think I’m going crazy. I can’t see outside the box. I can’t feel outside the heart. I can’t think outside myself. I’m so angry. I hate telemarketers. I hate myself more. They’re just doing their job. What about my job? What’s my deal? What’s wrong with me? I need to help. I need to release. I need to be normal. All I ever ask is to be normal. I want to be normal again. Where do I go? What do I do? I feel so hopeless. The world can’t understand me, not while I’m in these four walls. I can’t even hear myself think. Actually, I can only hear myself think and the stroke of this keyboard. I’m so angry. So so angry. I wish I could scream and shout. I wish I could rip some shit up. I’m so angry. I need to contain myself. It’s getting bottled up. It’s not right. It’s not good. I’m going to start crying. I really am. I can’t handle this. I can’t have this. I can’t go through this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t part of the deal. I’m losing it. It’s official. I hope I don’t hurt nobody. Or do I hurt I don’t hope nobody? It doesn’t even make sense anymore. I used to enjoy my thoughts and arrangements. Now I want to shoot myself. I don’t own a gun. It’s for the better. I’d be a dead man, guarenteed. I always thought I had a handle on my emotions. I was wrong. Or my emotions got too strong. I can’t deal with it. I’m so angry. I just want to shout. AHHHHHH. I’m so angry. I hate myself. I really really hate myself. Nobody is going to read this anyway. I don’t care. I just want to write. I want to write like there is no tomorrow. I want to write a suicice note. I want to make everyone who reads it cry. I wish I could come up with all the perfect words. All the perfect sounds. All the perfect ways. I want to make the whole world cry with sorrow. I want to whole world to know how I hurt. I hurt for no obvious reasons but no obvious hurt has reasons.