I Chew All The Skin From My Hands

Whenever I think about money, I automatically become depressed, often even suicidal. I can’t pay for this phone, let alone the bill. Car repair payments.

It’s a piece of shit.

I can’t afford my school’s tuition, I can’t even afford to buy books for a class I need to take. It’s all just so stress-inducing.

I wrote a little today, which was good.

I have a lot of work to do in the next week and a half, but I’ll get it done. I’ll get it done.

“You always push through,” everyone says, and they’re right, although sometimes I wish they weren’t. I am strong, but I’m not as strong as I need to be.

Goals are merely floating specks of dust at this point. Goals are fucking vapor. Goals do not feed me anymore.

I had to leave class for a few minutes to let tears stream freely down my face as I sat on the toilet–how’s that for a good morning? My advisor is useless, my brain is an empty can of sardines.

My only wish for today is to sit in the sun and smoke cigarette after cigarette and talk to someone, about anything, about nothing.

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