There’s something underneath my bed

It’s not where it’s meant to be

Something just fell out of my head 

My dreams are meant to fly away, not stay

They’re not made out of pillow feathers anymore

They’re heavy, like tears, or the D minor key

Strewn like odd socks, waiting to be found

I look at the sky, and pretend it’s the ground

I look to the ceiling and wish it was the floor

I fall into the night and wish it was day

37.0%

So today, I have reached the point where I hate fucking Tuesdays so fucking much, that I find the need to play 80s music, swear unnecessarily, ignore the fact that I have housemates, wish I had a cat, and drink brandy, and write. 

Just for the record, I haven’t been able to make myself take a swig out of the bottle yet.

It seems hardcore, and like the right thing to do in this situation but 

a) I have NEVER got drunk by myself before, and this is probably not the best time to start.

b) I probably will end up passing out and not doing anything productive and wake up after having a nightmare about something strange and disturbing like being threatened by security in a palace, at gunpoint.

What the fuck.

I’m doing this, because somehow, all good nights begin with staring at the little sign at the back of the bottle saying 37.0%. And I’m bored. 

Maybe I’ll call my sister after swig #1. 

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s sadness.

And the opposite of happiness is self-hate. I don’t think there’s a single person in the world I hate, in fact I love most people, I fall in love every minute. 

No one, no one, will ever understand the extent to which I hate myself right now

Except maybe Kurt Cobain, or some other tortured artist

What is it about me and falling in love with tortured people?

Because they’re so much more beautiful, with their souls all torn apart, 

I can see the whole world through the holes in their hearts

And when I’m lying in the grass, and looking up at them, you can still see the sky in the emptiness in their eyes.

 Every emotion has some kind of beauty, but melancholy, Melancholy is the most beautiful of them all, because where it lives inside you, it’s so dark, that it shines the brightest, like the brightest star in the night sky is the furthest away. 

Get low.

Apart from quoting a particularly terrible song, I just wanted to say that I really hope this is the lowest point in mood swings I will reach in a long time, because for no reason, out of nowhere, I feel like a whore has eaten my mind, and then thrown it back up, and it splattered all over my heart. And if I have a soul, which at this point I doubt, it’s a little black dung beetle, drowning in the whore vomit.

Wow.

I feel mildly better.

Thanks for listening.

Goodbye.