Last year at this time, I was groaning to myself about how I had to spend another Christmas Eve with the cow and her welfare clan of trash.

But this year, I wish Christmas Eve could have been spent the same exact way.

I miss him. Having Christmas Eve at Marissa's house just wasn't the same. Sure, it was fun. I really did have a great time with my cousins. I love them all so much. I love my family. They're really a great family. And dinner was delicious. Marissa baked a ham, which was amazing. The food was edible, which is something I've never been able to say about previous dinners at Christmas Eve. And the gift-giving part was fun. It wasn't the trash clan having Christmas while we sat around, watching. Well did a secret Santa kind of thing, and a few got gifts for Jordan and Jessie, the only two kids left (because Christmas should really be more for the kids). It was really a lot of fun.

But it didn't feel like Christmas Eve. Not without being at Pop-Pop's house.

And it hurts, because now, it's really starting to hit me that he's gone. The first five or so months weren't that bad, because it was hard to notice him gone. I really didn't see him that much. So nothing really changed. (Except the few times, during bus rides or late at night, when I would cry myself to sleep, thinking of that last time I saw him.) But tonight, it really hurts. Because it's dawning on me that he won't get to see another Christmas. And I won't get to see him again.

I can't even imagine how Dad must feel right now. God, I don't even want to. The pain must be unbearable. Losing a parent? And in particular, one he was so damn close to? I don't even want to think about losing my parents. It hurts too much to even think about it. But now, Dad can only think about what it was like for his father to be here. It's the same with his sisters, too. Especially Liz. She was daddy's girl, I think. I don't know how they do it. All four of them.

But it's hard. It doesn't feel like Christmas. I don't even care that it is, really. Not right now. Not anymore. There's really only two things on my list this year.

Pop-Pop and Cotton.

But right now, most importantly, Pop-Pop.

But Merry Christmas to you all. And, if you're missing a loved one right now (be it a relative or close friend or anyone), then I'm sorry. I know what you're going through. And it really makes the holidays shitty, doesn't it? But hold on to their memory, and make it a great holiday for them, okay? Try to smile, because it's what they would have wanted. They wouldn't want you to waste your Christmas by being sad over them. They want you to carry on their traditions, and make their memories live on. Be sad about them another day. Not today. Smile, and know that their bodies may be gone, but their lives are still in your hearts and memories.

And if you're holding a grudge against someone, forgive them. Whatever they did, don't waste your time dwelling on it. It does no one any good. I know it's hard, but in the end, it'll be worth it. Try to forgive and forget. If you can't, forgive but never forget. But if forgiveness isn't possible, then just forget. Sometimes, you just can't forgive some things people do. But holding it against them is unhealthy for you. What goes around comes around, right? For your sanity, just believe in that. Move on and stop wasting your precious time worrying about it.

Let's try that together, no?

If I could go back to a moment in time, I'd choose the last night Cotton was here. I'd make it count more.

I held him, not realizing it would be the last night day with him. I think in the back of my head I knew. A nagging feeling pulling me down, as I snuggled around the weakening dog barely moving on my bed.

I knew.

But I didn't want to believe it. So I did the best to say goodbye without really saying goodbye. Without acknowledging it was a goodbye.

I was reading through this blog. I got all the way up to May 2013. I had to stop at the first post in May. "I almost lost my puppy..."

I can't go through that again. Reading my despair as I almost lost him, then seeing my hopefulness because he appeared to be getting better. Then reading as it all went downhill. That's still a wound in me that hurts.

It would feel nice to cry, though. It'll give me something solid to cry over. And when I mourn him, when I remember my dog and cry over the loss, I feel closer to him. But Angela is here, and I don't want to cry in front of her.

But right now, thinking about it, it's hard to breathe. There's a lump in my chest where I'm pretty sure my heart is, but it feels like my heart is in my stomach. Or, just not there at all. Because it's really hard to breathe. Honestly. It's like my lungs don't want to work. Or my heart doesn't want to pump.

It was hard enough reading my fleeting comments about Cotton throughout the first year and a half of this blog. At one point, I wrote: "Damn it, Cotton wants to play now. Goodness, doggie."

I want to go back in time, and scream in my face, "You fucking idiot! Open your fucking eyes. That dog isn't going to live forever like you want to believe. Treasure the precious time you have now, because it won't last forever. And you can't go back in time to take advantage of the this time now. You have to make the most out of life in the present, because nothing lasts forever and you can't take advantage of the fact that things exist in the now. So put down your fucking electronics. Pick up that orange ball or the pink and blue squeaky bone and throw it for that poor dog. Give him the life he deserves. Give him the attention he needs and wants. Give him the love you know you have for him while you can. Because once he's gone, he's gone. And you'll spend the rest of your life beating yourself up for it."

God damn, I hate myself sometimes.

I need to stop. Because there's a lump in my throat and I can't breathe around it, and my eyes are watering so much that I can hardly see.

Oh, what I wouldn't do to go back in time. At least for a day, just to see Cotton again.

The only thing stopping right now is the fact that Angela is sitting on the other side of the room. That's the only thing. I'm not even sure what is causing this. It's just a darkness that's enveloping my mind that I can't get rid of. You'd think that I would try to reach for help. But nope. Nuh-uh! I'm strong. I'm stronger than this! I can handle it all by myself! Hehehe!!

Until the darkness just consumes my entire fucking mind! :D 'Cause I'm such a strong person!!! ^_^

Dreams...

A series of images that plays in the mind while the body is at rest.

Do they mean anything? Can we possibly learn anything from them? Are they really wishes our hearts make?

I like to think not. I've had some pretty messed up dreams that make no sense. I've had some that I'm terrified of.

But I've also had dreams that I want to go back to. Some bittersweet ones that have made me wake with a sense of nostalgia, or regret, or longing, or pain. It's those that really make me wonder:

Do dreams really mean anything? Can anything be said about what is going on in our subconscious based on what we remember from our dreams?

In related news, I'm spiraling again. Or maybe that's really not news. I don't know. I don't even know what has brought—

Of fucking course I do. A certain guy I play Grand Theft Auto with. Why does this keep happening to me? Let me rephrase that: Why do I keep doing this? I meet people and fall for them, when I never meant to. First it was Lazar, now it's this guy.

I don't even know if it is him. I think it's the concept. The thought of it. Sure, he's an amazing person. (And amusing, entertaining, wise, intelligent, sweet, considerate, adorable.) But it's the fact that these kind of people do exist in the world, and the only time I meet them is when I'm behind a screen. And I'm not meaning this in a creepy way. I mean that I can only meet people when it's anonymous.

I mean that my self-confidence is so fucking shot that I hole myself up in my room, away from the real world, and long for something I don't think I'll ever get. And you'd think that by now, I'd try and do something about this. Try and improve my self-image into something I want to be proud of.

But there's just so much wrong with me. The biggest thing, the thing that I can't change, is is the thing I was born with, and everything that comes with it. The scars, most importantly. The most noticeable one: the A.C.E. procedure. That fucking bulge in my abdomen. I can't get rid of that. I can lose weight, but that bulge will still be there.

And that all boils down to the fact that I was born fucked up, and it's going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

And it's that little fact right there that makes me wonder why I'm still alive and trying. My life is never going to get better. I'll always be fucked up. I can't change the past. So why bother trying to make the future into something that it can never be?

I had a dream last night that I made out with Trevor Phillips from Grand Theft Auto V. Why...?? Why, brain, why! It was such a fucked up dream...

Why is it all of a sudden hitting me, as if it just happened?

The crushing weight that I'll never see him again. The suffocating memories of his jokes that I'll never hear him say.  The insufferable pain that a man that was once so alive and full of love and humor is sitting alone in a plastic or metal container.

He's been gone for almost four months. But it suddenly feels as if it were just moments ago. I'm not even sure what triggered this. But I can't shake it. I know I need to, though. I'm heading to Connecticut to visit my dad. I can't bring this on him. But just the thought of my dad and how he must feel about losing his just makes it harder to control myself.

Alright...

That's about all I can say about the dream I had last night. And guess who it was about!!

Ethan B... The one I fell in love with... Yes, I rolled my eyes at myself as well.

But it wasn't a typical Ethan dream. It was a confusing Ethan dream. It started with a text message. I don't know who started the conversation, but eventually, Ethan sent me about ten pictures. It was a scroll-able list, which I didn't realize, and I only saw about five or six pictures at first, and they were all of him. I was so confused... Like, why would he send me pictures of himself? The last time he did that was three years ago before we anything started between us. And it made me think about a lot of things. But the dream cut to a different part, where I was a ninja-type thing and I had a plastic katana that would some how same me from evil? It was fun, but really strange. Then it went back to the Ethan part. I saw that on my phone, I suddenly had a contact pictures, which somehow meant he unblocked me from Facebook. I was ecstatic at first, 'cause I was thinking maybe we could finally be friends! But then I was looking at the rest of the pictures he sent me, 'cause I finally realized he sent more than just the five or six of himself, and there was a picture of a girl with a panicked, teary face, and another of a girl in a hospital bed, then of him holding a baby girl... So I texted him, confused and worried as fuck, asking if he had a little girl. I set my phone down, and I was on Facebook, looking at his profile to see if he was in a relationship. I don't remember if he was, but I was like imagining what he would say to my question when my phone went off. My eyes were, for some reason, blurry (but I don't think it was because I was crying, I think it was more I was still half asleep) so I couldn't really reach my phone, but I knew that no matter what I was imagining he would say, I needed to see for real. He said yes. At least I think he did, because I woke up about that time.

But overall, it was a fucking strange dream. And it kind of depresses me. Because I wish I could just speak to Ethan. Even if just as a friend. Because I think that's all I really want from him anymore. I don't know.

I just do not know.

What I do know is that I want to take a bus to Port Chester, then take one to Stamford, Connecticut, and walk on over to the liquor store on Pacific Street (because I know exactly where it is and I won't get lost) and buy a huge bottle of vodka. Then come back to campus and use up a couple of my meals to buy lots of orange juice and get absolutely drunk.

I tried updating the About Me thing on the right, but it won't let me. I'm not nineteen anymore. I'm twenty-one. Blogger, why won't you work?

Ugh, my God. So sick. Sore throat. Sound like a man...

When did I start saying God instead of gosh? I don't know. I've given up. Life sucks too much to sugar-coat it with goshes and oh mys.

I had an amazing birthday. Got so drunk. Didn't pass out or vomit! And I only fell once, and woke with no hangover. This drinking business is pretty easy. Too bad it's such a chore to get drunk. But now, all I want to do is drink more. This is a scary thought.

It doesn't help that I'm not exactly the most stable person at the moment. I'm wishing, so bad, for it to be cold out. So that I can wear long-sleeved shirts again. Why do I want long-sleeves so bad? Use your imagination.

So I just want it to be winter, so I can cuddle up with some Jose Cuervo, my pencil sharpener, and my fantasy world. And maybe the Walking Dead. (Yeah, they finally put season three up on Netflix, just when I need to focus on homework most. Thanks, people behind Netflix. Thanks.)

I'm not sure what's going on.

I was doing so well. I'm back at Purchase, my (new) roommate is absolutely amazing, and I'm loving my classes (all but one that I hate). I wasn't living in a fantasy, I was feeling happy, I was feeling like I was doing something that wasn't pointless. I was excited about the writing classes I'm taking and how it'll help me immensely. I was pumped about my birthday coming up in six days.

Wednesday in class, I actually raised my hand and gave my opinion in a workshop. For each of the four stories we critiqued. That was the a breakthrough in my mind. I wish I had someone to share it with. It was the most courageous thing I've done in years. Even after the first time I spoke, and my face turned bright red and I ran out of breath because I was panicking and hyperventilating, I did it again. I spoke four times. In one class. I don't know if you realize how absolutely huge that is for me. How, writing it now, brings me to tears because it has always been the single hardest thing for me to do since elementary school. And I did it four times in one class period.

Sure, I was freaking out about the piling medical bills and the increasing loan amounts, and my mom and I aren't really talking, but I wasn't depressed.

But last Thursday, I had a mental breakdown of sorts. Instead of feeling overwhelmed about financial shit, I felt sad. Depressed. Like crying. I couldn't do anything. I didn't even want to write. Then my roommate got back from class and I tagged along with her to the mall, and I was feeling better. If I didn't have Angela as a roommate, if I was stuck with someone like Rachel who couldn't care less that she shared a room with another human being, I don't know what would have happened. Angela has no idea what she did for me, but just caring that I exist really helped.

It's always been the fact that I've always been alone that has gotten me down and hindered me from getting back up. Sometimes I would text my friends, but I feel like I'm losing them. Sammy, I just don't know what's going on with her. She seems to gloss over anything I say. McKayla, she's been scarce in contacting me and replying to my messages. Jess, well, she works and is always busy. I'm not afraid of losing Jess, but McKayla and Sam. I have no idea what's going on with them. There have been so many things that I've wanted to share with McKayla, but just didn't think I should because we're not talking that much. And I've tried sharing my stories and stuff with Sam, but with no response from her. I don't know if I'm the one changing, or if Sam is, but our friendship is changing as well. And I don't like it. But I don't know how, or even if, I should say something.

I actually had the urge to cut. I don't know why. But I honestly did. A couple times this weekend I had to stop myself. It's because Angela is here and we share a small room together and it's too warm to wear long sleeves all the time that I didn't. When winter comes along, I don't know if that argument will still work on myself. I have a pencil sharpener, and I have rubbing alcohol to clean it.

But I was also spiraling downward in my breakdown Thursday and this weekend. Angela went home for the weekend, so what did I do? I went right back into a fantasy. I did it to stray away from the thoughts of wanting Ethan back, or wanting to contact Lazar. Yeah, apparently, somehow, I'm back on them. I want to bitch-slap some sense into me. Why the fuck would I go back to fucking Ethan? From how many years ago? Three now? (Why does it feel like it should be so much longer than that?) But the point is it feels like years and years ago. So why did I fall asleep, clutching my pillow, wishing I could go back in time and do something different with him? Why did I desperately want to erase any hard feelings between us and somehow resurrect any tiny sliver of interest he might have had for me? Why did I dwell on the fact that I once loved him?

I'm just not sure what is going on. Maybe if I do cut, or become bulimic (those are the type that up-chuck every meal, right?), I'll be sent away to a mental hospital. Why do I feel like I want that? Why do I feel like I even need it? I don't know.

I just don't know what to do. Except maybe start using a twisty eyeliner instead of a pencil.

I would give anything to snuggle Cotton one more time. God, I miss that dog. So fucking much. I never knew losing a pet would be so fucking difficult. Sometimes I wonder why we get close to them. It's just so fucking hard when they pass away.

Science is so advanced. Why isn't there a way to preserve the lives of those you love? To avoid death completely?

'Cause even over two months later, I still can't breathe when I see a picture of Cotton, or the damn orange ball he loved so much, or his old collar, or the tiny blue sweater he had as a baby. I just can't fucking take this pain anymore.

Little Em has been coughing a lot lately. I was thinking maybe he just has a hairball he can't get up. (Though he's never had a hairball before.) Or a cold or something. ('Cause you can hear a rumble in his chest sometimes when he breathes.)

But my mom keeps reminding me he's old. We've lived in New York for eleven years now, and we had him a year or two before we moved.

I refuse to believe that it's his old age making him cough, and what that could possibly mean.

I swear, I can't take any more of this. I'm not losing another thing I love. Not after Cotton and my grandfather.

I fucking swear, this year is going to destroy me. If I lose my cat, I don't know what I'll do. I can't lose everything I love in one fucking year. I can hardly breath just thinking about it.

I turn twenty-one in two months exactly. But if I lose one more thing I love, I don't know if I'll make it to that. At least, not mentally. I can't take anymore pain.

But you know what I'm going to do tomorrow? Take a million pictures of Little Em. I'm not going to have regrets like with Cotton. I never got to take pictures of him with my good camera. And I'm going to capture as much of Little Em as I can.

I want to believe I won't need to. But I'm hoping that if I prepare for the worst, it won't happen. If I don't prepare, it'll happen. I'm praying that logic works.

It has to. I know it will.

2013. This entire year. I just want to restart it.

I'm so tired of it all. I miss Cotton. I miss my Pop-Pop, which I lost a little over a month after losing Cotton. June 25. Exactly one month ago today.

Why does life suck? Why can't I just wake up from this nightmare?

I thought I was getting better after Cotton. But Rin came and visited the other day (last week, I think), and I just about broke down talking to her about it. I would have if I didn't keep myself together to avoid breaking down in front of her. But I did today, too. I was taking pictures with my camera, and when I put the memory card into my computer to sort the pictures, I made a folder for Little Em, Porky, and Ginger. Only three folders. That's one less than I normally make. And it just tore my heart. Little things like this keep hitting me, reminding me that I've lost a huge part of my world. But then as I was sorting through the pictures, I found a couple of Cotton from Christmas time. And that was what broke me. I cried for a while. It didn't feel good, like people usually feel after a good cry. It just made me feel empty. Hollow. Because that's what I feel like without Cotton.

And it makes me feel bad, because I've cried more for Cotton than my grandfather. Don't get me wrong, I miss him. I hate that he passed away. But after Cotton, I just had no energy left inside me to grieve. And the sad reality of it is that I was closer to Cotton than my grandfather, because I lived with Cotton and took care of him. He was my baby. But that doesn't lessen the pain of losing my grandfather. In reality, it was harder seeing him go than Cotton. But living each day without Cotton is more noticeable than living each day without my grandfather.

It's just this entire year. I really want to wake up. I thought that maybe I had fallen asleep before presenting my final for my Thursday night class, right before my dad texted me about Cotton. But now I'm hoping I fell asleep January 1. I just want a chance to redo this year. Spend more time with the people who matter most to me. Because you really never do know when the last time you'll see them is. I don't want to jinx it, or wish for it, but I'm just wondering what else is going to go wrong this year. I always knew thirteen was an unlucky number. I just never realized it would make such an unlucky year. A shitty year. The worst year of my life. All four years in high school combined weren't as bad as this one year. And it's only half over. I really don't want to see what else this year has in store. It's just been too much already. I want it to end.

If the entire world ended, then everyone could die all at once. And there'd be no grieving, because we'd all be dead together. And we'd all be together in whatever afterlife has to be waiting for us. To give me a chance to see my grandparents and Cotton again. And while we're at it, my first kitty. Emmett. Big Emmy. The one three of my cats were named after, including the two amazing kitties I have now.

I have to think positive. It's hard for me, though. But I have to. If I let all the negativity in my mind conquer me, I think I'll drown. There have been so many moments where I've come close. For some moments, I've been physically close. Others, most others, I've just been mentally close to losing it. Like I am now. I just can't take any more of this fucking shit. It has to be over soon. Everything. Life. Human life. The Earth. Everything. I just beg for it all to end. I don't want people to be sad over my death. (Though I believe few would actually be.) And I don't want to leave monetary problems behind. But if we all died, it'd be perfect. I keep praying for that world-ending disaster to happen. I wanted it to happen in fucking 2012. Before this fucking shit-cursed year ever had a chance of happening.

Maybe we all are dead. And this is my hell. It's a slow hell, as to not make it so obvious that I'm there. But I'm suffering enough for it to be known that this is hell. I guess I wasn't a good person. I never thought I'd go to a good place. I always figured I'd go to hell. I just never realized it'd hurt this much. I thought it would be physical pain and torture. Rotting in chains in an inferno of a wasteland. I never knew it'd feel so real, and it would traumatize me and slowly eat at my heart and soul, taking everything that makes up my world one little, heart-wrenching piece at a time.

I just want to wake up. This is just a horrible nightmare.

He's gone. My baby is gone. I lost my fucking puppy.

He was doing better. That last post. He was starting to play again. He was taking more bites. Then he just stopped. We resorted to syringe-feeding him. It didn't help.

I have to believe in Heaven. I have to believe that someday, I will see him again. My baby boy. That dog was the world to me. Still is. I love my cats to all hell. I still need them. But I need my dog back. This wasn't supposed to happen this way. I was supposed to not have cancer, and he was supposed to get better. It was supposed to happen that way.

I don't have cancer. So why did he not get better?

I have always cried about this day. Having to say goodbye to any of my babies. Little Em, Princess, Cotton. But for this day to actually happen? It wasn't. They were all supposed to live forever. Why did that have to get fucked up? Why is my Cotton not here with me now??

I can't do this. I'm not strong enough. I need my baby back. My parents keep saying, "If there's anything you want, we'll give it to you." I want Cotton back. That's all I want. I want my puppy back. My baby boy. My world. I love him.

I promised him I would make him better. When I came home that first night because they told me he wasn't doing so well, and that I should come home and see him, I made a promise to him. I told him, "Mommy's here. Mommy will make it all better. I promise." I couldn't even do that. I tried so hard. I really did. But I just never believed it was this bad. I just thought, "Yeah, he'll get better." I was in denial. Complete denial. He looked horrible. All he did was lay on the couch. He didn't even give kisses anymore.

His heart was so frail. He didn't even survive the relaxer they gave him before the euthanasia. He passed in my arms. At least I got to hold him as he left. At least he got to spend his last moments in his mommy's arms. I hope I made him as comfortable as possible. I hope he wasn't panicked as he realized his heart was slowing down. I hope he is okay now. I hope he won't miss me too much until I get to see him again.

We buried him with his favorite toy. The one I bought at the dollar store, that I slept with for maybe a month before I gave it to him. I wanted it to smell like me, so that he wouldn't miss me as much when I was gone at college. Now what am I going to hold on to of his that he's gone? We buried him in his collar, too. One of them. His old black one is hanging up in the back next to his leash. I'm going to keep that one forever.

Five years. That's all that puppy got to see. He should have lasted five more. Ten more. Twenty more. I would have settled with one more. But one more year of him as himself, not the sick, frail puppy who stumbled after getting down off the couch. He was so weak. He was miserable. And his misery was worse than ours now. I have to believe we did the right thing. Even if I feel we made a mistake.

I feel we gave up on him. That there was more we could do. That, if we kept feeding him and nursing him back to health, he would have improved. Last night, he was wagging his tail. He was again this morning at the vet's. I don't know what that was about. Maybe he knew. Knew it was his time. And that was him telling us that he was ready. And this was the right thing to do.

But I just miss him so fucking much. This is going to be the hardest summer without him. I never even got to take pictures of him with my good camera I got for Christmas. There was so much I didn't get to do with him. Spend five more years with him, for example.

I just want him back. If there is anything I can do now to get him back, I would do it in a heartbeat. I would give my health for his. I would. My health is nothing without him. Without all three of my babies.

They were supposed to live forever. Princess, Little Em, Ginger. They weren't supposed to outlive Cotton. They were all supposed to live until my parents and I were gone. So that we could all be buried together. Because this pain of losing someone you love is just too hard to bear. I can't do it.

I just want to wake up. Please. I keep praying that as I was correcting my short story for my Thursday night class, I fell asleep, because it was so stressful. I had to actually read my story in class, so I was stressed that whole day about it. So I just passed out as I was revising it. I had just finished revising it when my dad texted me, telling me I had to go home that weekend. It was before that text that I passed out. Passed out from stress. I'm just sleeping now. That's all. And this is just some horrible nightmare. One that feels painfully real. But it's not. And I'm going to wake up. And my Cotton will be fine. All my babies will be fine.

I have to wake up. This can't be real. It just can't be. I won't accept it. I just won't.

My puppy is doing well, though. It makes me happy. I guess we came close to losing him, but when I first saw him, he was already back to (somewhat) playing and eating. So I didn't see him in that critical state. So I guess I wasn't really as worried as I should be, because I didn't see it. I don't really like to think it was all that horrible, because I don't want to cry. All I know is that my puppy is doing much better now. He's taking his medicine, which has increased his ability to eat and play. I think he still needs more mommy time, so I'm heading home again this weekend. I think Jess is gonna visit us, too. I think Cotton would like that. He loves people. And I think he really liked Jess. My pets tend to love my friends, because I have awesome, amazing friends. If I like them, typically my pets (who, ironically, each take on a different part of me) like them, too. So, this weekend should be good. Quality Cotton-mommy time, quality Princess time, quality Little Em time, and quality Bestest Buddy time! Now, if only I could fit in quality McKayla and quality Sammy time XD Then, my weekend would be complete!

It's so weird that I just watched "The Ward" and "Deadgirl" in the past couple days, and for the past couple weeks or so, I've been playing NationStates (again). And now, I see that a book by the guy who created the game has become a movie, and two of the actors were stars of those two movies. I just think it's so interesting how that happened. I've never even heard of these movies until a couple days ago. The actors are Amber Heard and Shiloh Fernandez (who is incredibly attractive). And, Brittany Snow and Kellan Lutz are in the movie. I kinda like the cast so far :P I may see this movie when it comes out XD

I almost lost my puppy last week.

And it terrifies me. I can't lose my baby boy.

His heart is enlarged. It was pressing against his lungs, which were full of fluids, and his esophagus or trachea or something. He wasn't eating or drinking. He hadn't eaten really anything from Sunday to Thursday. So I went home this past weekend. I think it helped him for me to be there. I hadn't been home since Easter. I had missed my baby. But I got him to eat a little, as did my parents. So he's doing better.

But he's still not eating a whole lot. And it really worries me. I can't lose that dog. He's my everything. He and my cats, who are thankfully okay. I snuggled with all three of them all weekend. It was nice.

And the doctor called and said the fucking tumor wasn't cancerous. If I don't lose my dog, I'll be happy these tumors aren't cancerous. If I lose my dog, I will hate God. Not that I really believe he exists. I don't know what to believe. I don't know what's up there. I don't know what I can't see and experience myself. I don't know what there's no proof of. I know kangaroos are real although I've never seen one. There's physical, concrete proof of them. I don't know if ghosts exist, because there's no concrete proof of them existing. I haven't seen one. I know there's some sort of fate system going on. I've experienced that. But what controls that, or who, I don't know. So maybe there's a God. Maybe not the god the Bible talks about. (Who wrote the Bible? Just a bunch of random people. So how do we know it's actually God's words?) And I don't believe in Jesus. I believe there was a man wandering around who's name was Jesus who claimed to be God's true son. But aren't we all God's children? Isn't that what they tell you at Sunday school? So why is Jesus the special one? And if magic is satanic and we can't believe in it because it doesn't exist, how did God impregnate Mary? That's magic right there. But magic is witchcraft, and that's not Christian or Catholic or whatever. So how does that happen? It doesn't make sense. And doesn't God love all his children, no matter what they do? So saying God hates certain types of people (homosexuals, for example) is contradictory. It's people being afraid of something that's not their own personal normal, and pretending they know God's feelings about it. They don't. The Bible doesn't know. The Bible wasn't written by the actual hand of God. It was written by random people who claimed to know his message. How do we know that's true? Because we have to trust in God! But is trusting some random stranger the same as trusting God? I say that God told me to tell you to fuck yourself. If you don't believe me, is that going against God? I don't think so. So if I don't believe these people who wrote the Bible, does that mean I don't believe God? I think not.

I think religion is a cult. I think Jesus isn't who he claimed to be. He was just a man. A regular man, like everyone else. He was never resurrected. That's not physically possible without magic. And magic is a totally different area of belief.

Anyways. C'est la vie, je suppose. Malheureusement.

The procedure went well, I guess. They took out over seven hundred milliliters of fluid. That's a fucking lot. Then they're sending it out, and in about a week, I should hear back from the gynecologist. Then, we'll know if it's cancerous or not, and what I'll have to do.

I hope it's cancerous. Terminally cancerous.

So, I don't think I told you that the cysts are actual tumors. Benign tumors, at that. Meaning, they're not cancerous. At least, that's what the gynecologist thinks. My dad seems to still be worried that they are cancerous.

I want them to be cancerous.

Call me fucked up if you want, but think about it. I want to not be alive. But I can't kill myself. Either I'm not strong enough, or I'm too strong. But whatever it is, I just can't do it. Maybe I just don't have the energy. I'm too tired and weak to do it. That's what it is. I'm not strong enough.

And suicide, what a selfish way to die. Oh, poor thing, world got too tough on you? Welcome to fucking reality. That's the way I see it. Even people who have been abused and tormented through life, suicide is the weak way out. Fight up for yourself. I probably should do that, too. I mean, my life isn't that bad. But whatever the hell is wrong with me makes it feel like it's so much worse than it really is. I lay in bed sometimes at night, thinking of how pointless life is. Mine in particular. I'm not really good at anything. I'm a mediocre writer. I can't understand and analyze the stories we read in class; what makes me think I can make it as an editor? I take things as face value, and I don't think deep or critically about anything. Writing was the only thing I had passion for. So what's left? I already turned away from being a veterinarian; I'm not a science person. (Though I find space science very interesting.) I'm not smart enough, scientifically, to go into that field, though. I'm not a research person. I hate it. That rules out science in general, even social sciences. Wanting to be a psychologist? I failed Psychology class. I'm failing Sociology now. Social sciences aren't my forté either. I'm, like, out of options in life. I'm not even cut out for waitressing. I'm way too socially awkward and terrified of the world.

So what do I do? I'm wasting my time at college. I'm wasting my life. I'm a living soul who has wasted the beautiful opportunity that is life. I'm not social. I'm wasting away in my room, letting my mind melt to goo with useless video games and television shows. I've already fucked up my hearing by listening to music too loud through headphones. In complete silence, I hear a ringing in the back of my ears. It's not that loud, but I can't hear the silence of night sometimes. Sometimes, when people talk, I can't hear them.

I'm really a waste of a human being. And I hate human beings, so that makes it worse.

Sometimes I cry about my life. About how worthless I am. And this unbearable, unshakable fear that the only way out of this mess offing myself doesn't make me do anything. It doesn't make me want to fix myself, my life. It doesn't make me want to commit suicide before I really fuck up my financial situation a lot more. (College is so fucking expensive. And with my horrible resumé, I'm never going to get a good job to pay it off.) My parents aren't going to live forever. I can't live with them for the rest of my life. And it's not even like I can marry rich. You need to be attractive for that, which I'm not. And with my social awkwardness, I'm never going to even find a guy. I've had one boyfriend my entire life. That lasted for a month. I couldn't handle it. It just felt so weird and unnatural. I didn't know what to do. I freaked out, and broke up with him over AIM. And other guys in my life? I either fucked it up, or freaked out and pushed them away. Maybe the whole Ethan thing, I fucked up on purpose subconsciously, because I was terrified of a relationship.

All I know is that I'm a complete fuck up. I'm a waste of a life. All I do is waste resources, space, and time. There's a better human being out there somewhere who could use the air I breathe, the food I eat, the bed I sleep in, the clothes I wear.

Sometimes I think I should go see a therapist to talk about these issues. But, in order for someone to help you, you have to want to help yourself. I don't want to. I just want it to be over. But I don't know how to do that. I'm way too chickenshit to kill myself. I just can't do it. I almost did once. Maybe other times, but they just weren't significant enough to be committed to memory. All I know is that I want to have terminal (I have to specify—I don't want a cancer than can be removed with yet another surgery; I've had enough fucking surgeries in my life) cancer so that I can die in a way that's not just a weak escape. But is wanting to have cancer weak? I feel like it's almost exploiting something most (normal) people fear. People who are unfortunate enough to develop it and live to tell about it are survivors. They're strong people. But is wanting to have it, and wanting to succumb to it, almost spitting in their faces? I don't know. I just don't fucking know anymore. I just want to not be here. But I can't do it.

I don't think I'm depressed.

I think what my problem is is that when I'm bored, I try to find a reason why. Or, to fill in the empty spaces, I create an emotion that's strong enough to entertain my mind. I can't create my own happiness. I'm just not an optimistic person.

But depression is easy to make. Just get real sad, wallow in self-pity, and contemplate why life sucks. See? Easy.

But is the fact that it is so easy for me a sign that I am actually depressed? Or is it a sign that I'm just really pathetic and need to stop?

Sometimes, I wish I was still on my anti-depressants so that I can be social and alive again.

But then again, I wish I would just stop being so fucking anti-social and get out there.

I also noticed something else. My writing (poetry, specifically) is better when I'm experiencing some strong emotion. Be it anger, pain, depression, happiness, love, fear... But just some kind of emotion. Boredom is almost a lack of emotions, in a way. I can't write poems out of boredom. They just ramble and mean nothing. It's when I have something to say because of some emotion that my writing is really prosperous.

Sometimes, to write poetry, I think I make myself depressed. Or, by writing, I open a closed wound. Just for the sake of pumping out a decent poem.

If I went out and experienced life more, I'd have more to write about without opening closed wounds. There are some wounds that are healed enough where they can't open up again. Ethan and Vic are two examples. But they're healed over completely. Vic has barely left a scar. Ethan will be there, maybe forever. But they just can't be opened, thankfully. Lazar is probably all healed over, too. I don't think he'll really even scar, either. That was short-lived, but pretty intense. I'm not sure if I ever cut over Ethan. (I was also less alone and on anti-depressants for parts of it.)

But is this whole making-myself-depressed-to-write-better a problem? I think so.

That, and the fact that I live in a fantasy. Most of my time is spent daydreaming of a better life, rather than going out and making a better one. I need help.

As my father would say, there's not a psychiatrist smart enough to help me.

Or, as a joke, a bottle of cyanide will help. Help him get rid of his headache (me), anyways. Oh, father of mine...

Ever since I decided to go to this shithole school, everything's gone wrong. A UTI, a shitty roommate, horrible help from the actual school... Dumb classes that aren't even useful for my major.

And now, I have cysts in my ovaries (well, they've been there for who knows how long), and I have an appointment Thursday to talk about them with a gynecologist. (I may or may not have already mentioned this on here in a previous post). And, they're most likely not cancerous, but I guess there's a very slight chance? But it's a chance. I'm not worried, though. I just want them gone!

And now, we (the six of us collectively) were caught with our smoke detectors covered. Maximum sentence is expulsion. Minimum is residence probation. But the fucked up this is, I've never smoked pot in my life. I've never done any drugs. And I'm going to get in trouble. I have an initial conference on Wednesday to talk to them about it. I guess the six of us are meeting with the assistant director or whatever. I just want them to test me for drugs so I can get out of this incident. And then, I want to fucking move in with my father in Connecticut so I can not be involved with whatever bullshit that goes on in this dive of a fucking apartment! This is fucking ridiculous. I choose to live a clean, legal life, and I still get in fucking trouble. Like, what the fuck, man?? Fuck you, SUNY Poor Choice, for sticking me in this fucking room!!!

These are reasons I'm going to go fucking insane. And reasons why going here was just the worst decision ever.
Reasons why it's a best decision: it's close to Connecticut, which is where my dad is. That makes it easier to come home ('cause my dad only has to travel twenty minutes to pick me up, rather than four hours to Oswego where I would have gone if I didn't get accepted here). And, with the sudden rise of medical shit (UTI, stomach pains, medical treatment [which isn't sudden; it's a weekly thing I've been doing for about five years], and now these cysts), it's easier for him to take me to the doctors, so that I don't have to go through this alone. I mean, I go to the appointments alone. (I'm twenty years old, I would hope I could do that.) But it's dealing with that shit, and being able to go home for comfort instead of suffering at the apartment that helps.

But I still fucking hate it here! Next year will be so much better. I'll actually have a roommate that's nice! Her name is Jamie, and she seems really cool. We have our room picked out, and I'm excited. I just wish we could move in now, instead of next year!

Not sure why I wrote that. It's not really a story. It's just something I was thinking about on the way home from Purchase a couple Fridays ago for Spring Break.

   She looks at her grandmother, laying on the cheap mattress. The tubes and IVs make the elder woman look even sicklier than she would if she were in her own bed.
   "I hope you get better, Nana," the girl, about fourteen-years-old, says. She doesn't know what else to say; it's not like she is close to this woman.
   "Has no one told her?" the grandmother asks, looking at her son, the younger girl's father. The elder then looks to her grandmother. "I'm not getting better."
   The woman has pancreatic cancer, and, somewhere in the back of her mind, the girl knows her grandmother is dying. Everyone goes silent. The elder might not have been in her life much, but she is still the fourteen-year-old's grandmother, and to some extent, she loves her. To a teenager who has not dealt with losing a grandparent yet, hearing one tell her that they are dying is unsettling. She begins to tear up, but she remains calm. Crying now would only upset everyone in the cramped, sterile room.
   As they leave, the girl avoids eye contact with her father. She saw him cry a few years ago when his grandfather passed away. But her father most likely has conflicted feelings about his mother, the woman who neglected him. There might have even been physical abuse, for all she knew. The girl's unsure if he's crying now, or if he ever will. But to make things easier for her, and probably him as well, she avoids eye contact with him. During the car ride home, she manages to keep the tears under control.
   Days or weeks pass, no one keeps track of the time. But it's the Monday after Mother's Day, either 2006 or 2007, that the girl's father calls her. He's at work, and she's at home. His voice remains calm, and she takes the news well. When they hang up, she bursts into tears. With her mother there, and the small children that attend her mother's daycare, the tears go away fast. Quicker than she would have expected, given that her grandmother has just passed away. It surprises her, and at first, it bothers her. She shouldn't be laughing or smiling as the kids try to cheer her up.
   She wonders how her father is taking it. He cried for his grandfather. Would he cry for his negligent mother? She doesn't know. And she won't see him until Thursday, when he returns home a week of work in Connecticut. It's probably easier for him that she doesn't see whatever reaction he has. But going through the loss of one's mother isn't something to do alone. He should at least be with his sisters, who suffered the same childhood and yet have different views of their mother.
   The fourteen-year-old may never know how her father took the news, nor will she ever know exactly what kind of childhood he had. But with this, she gains new perspective on her own life.

I'm so fucking tired.

And extremely bored.

I got the new Sims expansion pack. University Life. But I can't play it, because my laptop is in my room, and I'm at Boulevard. So I'm just sitting here. Bored as ever. Cold as hell. And tired as fuck.

I think I shall go watch some danisnotonfire on YouTube. He's really funny. And pretty cute, too :P

Dude, I slept like the dead last night. When my alarm woke me up, before I opened my eyes, I thought I was at home, in my room. Then I was wondering why my alarm was going off on a Saturday. Then I opened my eyes, and was like, "What the fuck, why are my walls white!?" Then it occurred to me that I was at college, and I had to get up for class. Then I was wondering how late it was, because I felt like I slept so long. But it was seven-thirty. I had gotten nine hours of sleep, which felt amazing. But I'm still tired...

But I realize it's my dreams that help me feel like I've slept a while. The more I dream (or the more of my dream I remember), the longer it feels like I've slept. If I don't remember my dream when I wake up, it feels like I've been asleep for an instant and no longer. So I like dreaming! 'Cause not only do they make me feel better-rested, but they are pretty interesting some times! I would love to go back into a dream and re-experience it.

I get to go home next Friday! Spring Break is in a couple weeks, and I get to see my BESTEST BUDDY!!! Maybe I'll get to see Sammy, too (: I know I won't get to see McKayla ):

And just because I call Jess my Bestest Buddy, it doesn't mean I love her any more than McKayla or Sammy. I think we're closer because we spent so much time together in the recent past, whereas I haven't spent that much time with McKayla or Sammy in such a long while. Since high school, really. But all three are my absolute best friends. I couldn't handle life right now without them. I talk to them just about every day, be it on the phone, texting, or online. Or via a blog or the Sims (gifting! :D), haha. I've even tried to make an extra effort to be available and talk to them more, because I miss them. And I'm just so grateful for them. They mean so much to me. Some people don't have a "best friend", they only have friends. But I have three best friends. It's incredible.

Um....

Hi. Salut. Moshimoshi. Hola. Ciao. Hello. Privet. Bonjour. Hallo. Kon'nichiwa.

I, surprisingly, don't feel depressed.
Just bored.

And slightly guilty and overwhelmed, because I have a fucking shit ton of homework. I haven't been reading the short stories for my one class regularly, and my notebook is due tomorrow for a midterm grade. I'm supposed to write a little log at the end of reading each story and reflect on it. Fuck that shit, man. I don't have time for this!

But I had a good night last night! Only to wake up to an awkward morning... But let's start with the wonderful night.

I actually went out (I feel like a meme-face-thing should be going "ermagerd" right about now. But, I hate those meme-face-things and "ermagerd".) and did something somewhat social (HOLY FUCKING SHIT!). Gridline Base Band (the band my roommate Rachel sings in) had a show at the "community center" for my apartment complex, and she really wanted me to go. So I went. They were pretty damn awesome. This may or may not have been the first live performance of a band I've been to. (I feel like I've been to another small thing before, but I don't think so. By far the closest thing to a concert I've been to, which is pretty lame.) It was cramped in the small room of the "community center" and there was a small crowd of about... Twenty to thirty people? But I had fun. And Rachel kept thanking me, telling me it meant a lot to her that I came. I don't understand why. I'm just her roommate, why would she care if I came? But it made me feel special because it made her happy that I went. And I'm glad I went. I really enjoyed it. They're pretty good live. And Dan was playing an electric guitar, which sounded fucking sick. It was great. He has a pretty good voice, too. Rachel really does, too. And Dan thanked me for coming to the show, too, after it was done. I don't understand why it was a big deal. They were the ones who did the cool thing: they performed. I just listened to their awesomeness. They're not really my genre, but I still enjoyed it. They're good.

And the weirdest part is like three guys smiled at me. This one guy even kept telling me I should smile. Like, guys don't pay attention to me. They don't notice me. But last night, three did. It kinda felt good to not be invisible for once. And not invisible in a not good way.

But the most uncool part was the fact that I saw two kids I went to high school with (Michael and Noah, both in the class after me). As Facebook tells me, only one of them actually goes to Purchase (Noah). The other must have been visiting. It was so weird to see them, though! And after some Facebook research (stalking), I found out another kid, Hagan, goes here. And I already knew, before I was accepted, that a kid Andrew is here. All of them were in the grade below me.

But this morning, I woke up to their photographer sleeping in Rachel's bed. It took me about thirty minutes to realize this.

When my alarm woke me up (at eight so I could take my antibiotic on time), it was him stirring in the bed that actually woke me up (I had sat up and looked over, and was like, "Oh, shit," as I scrambled up). So I quickly turned off the alarm, and sat there for a little while. I finally took my pill, and was staring at the floor when I noticed the same boots the cute (but perhaps gay) photographer was wearing last night. I watched him a lot, because one, he had an awesome outfit, and two, I wanted to know if he was gay or not. So I remembered these boots. Confused, I re-evaluated the person laying in Rachel's bed. I noticed the lack of blue hair, and the length of his body under the blanket. Definitely too long to be my short roommate. Then I was like, "Oh, fuck, that's the photographer."

How he ended up in her bed, I still don't understand. I think they got shit-faced. But I'm kinda mad that he was here. It was so fucking awkward. At what point in the night did he come stumbling in and pass out on her bed? 'Cause by the conversation they had, she didn't walk him in here and point out her bed or anything. She was shit-faced, too. So how did he end up here? And, not to mention, it's rude that he was here, sleeping in her room, without her here. If she was here, he'd have been a guest. Without her here, he was just intruding in my space. The bullshit is really getting old. Rachel has no respect for me being her roommate. She also keeps unplugging my powerstrip so she can plug her fan in and smoke weed in the room when I'm in Connecticut Tuesday nights/Wednesday mornings. And, what pisses me off is that she leaves my powerstrip unplugged. If you're going to do that, at least have the fucking decency to plug it back in. So I unplugged both the lamp and the fan and plugged my powerstrip back in. I'm just so pissed at her sometimes. Then she goes and thanks me and tells me it means a lot to her that I went to the show. Ugh, whatever.

I really just want to move out of here. I'm tired of being here. I hate it. But, at the same time, it's different from the safe environments I've always been in. I feel like I've grown a little since coming here. 'Cause I'm really on my own. Not just at the college, but in the fact that I'm taking buses to and from Connecticut. Like, is this really me? Doing things on my own, in the real world?

The next step of growing up and maturing is getting a job.

I don't know why I don't have one. I just don't. Babysitting and work study at the library have been my only jobs. I want a job, 'cause I miss money, but I don't know where to get one. A cashier position looks scary (I'm terrified of people and socially awkward). I hate mundane tasks such as restocking and re-shelving. But, I suppose you don't really need people skills for that, so I could do it. I'm scared that my lack of experience is really going to fuck me up in the real world. I'm scared that it will? That's implying I have doubt about it actually doing it. No, I know that it will. Employers will look at my résumé, and be like, "You've never had a job? Why not?"

And what am I supposed to tell them? "I'm lazy and terrified of the real world!"

"Oh, okay. You seem to show great potential for this job, and you're exactly the person we're looking—"

Yeah, right. Fucking no.

So I'm screwed.

And is it weird that I'm listening to "Hero of War" by Rise Against on repeat? Its brutally raw emotion just... I don't know. It's a depressing and sobering. When I listen to the lyrics, even after over fifty plays, I still get teary. This song breaks my heart. The reality of war helps me realize that my pitiful life is just that: pitiful. It makes me realize that whatever I'm going through isn't that bad. And it makes me want to go out and hug a soldier, because they are the most amazing people in the world. And it makes me want to be able to do something to stop the war so they don't have to go through this. I feel horrible, because they're going through this to protect our way of life. To protect our country. They shouldn't have to. My well-being isn't worth them going through this. But I will never be able to thank them enough for it.

I'm bored. I have so much homework I should be doing, but I really don't feel like doing it. Not to mention I'm nervous, because tomorrow night my story is being critiqued in class. In this class that I particularly hate because the way it's set up, I'm way, way, WAY too petrified to speak and get credit for participation. So I feel like I'm going to fail this class because I can't speak up.

But beyond that... I think the semester isn't too bad. I talked to my Sociology professor, and was able to hand in an assignment I missed because of my urinary tract infection. And U.S. Short Story... Well, I'm not even sure. And Lyric Poetry, I think I'm doing fairly well in that, too. Even though I really don't participate in class (again, too scared to open my damn mouth), I think I'll do alright. But that fiction writing class, which is like the most important to my major of Creative Writing, is the one I'm afraid of failing.

I'm tired. I want to go back to sleep, but I can't, because I'm at Boulevard. (My dad's place of employment.)

Speaking of my father and his places of employment... I saw Rob last night :P He's just so cute! He came in, and my dad was saying something to me, then he's like, "It could be worse. You could look like Rob."

He was like, "Gary, that's fucked up."

And I'm like, "I'm just going to keep my comments to myself." Obviously, my comments about looking like Rob... I have no comments about my dad being fucked up, haha. But I do, quite obviously, have comments about Rob! Ah, he's just so adorable. I would love to get to know him better, to see if there's a decent personality behind his good looks. But I will never know. Yeah, I should never say never (which is a contradicting saying in itself, but I'll let that one go). But I can almost assure you I will never get to know Rob on a personal level like that. Like I said in my previous post, I'm not his type. But, even if he is a decent guy and doesn't care about "types", I'm way too shy and scared to talk to the opposite sex like that. Not to mention that I could never flirt with him or try to get his attention with my dad sitting right next to me. It would just be way too fucking awkward. So, I'll just accept that Rob and I will never happen. But, one can dream... Haha.

One of these days, I should really just grow a fucking pair and talk to a guy. Get a guy. Stop being so damn shy around them. Actually go out and LIVE for once in my fucking life. Maybe I need to drink. Maybe I'm like Raj and need to drink before being able to talk to the opposite sex. Hahaha... I'm so messed up! Socially awkward, actually. Well, both.

What a fucking terrible semester I've had so far.

First, I miss my bestest buddy.

Second, I hate having a roommate.

Third, I hate this apartment.

Fourth, I had a wicked terrible stomach cramp for a week.

Fifth, I had a nasty urinary tract infection immediately following that stomach cramp.

I'm still trying to get rid of this UTI. And for the first time since Tuesday night, I'm able to pee freely. But what a fucking time I had with that UTI. I went to the health center on campus twice, then to the hospital to see a urologist. I have a CAT scan this Friday. Then I have to meet with him again. Hopefully, nothing is bad.  Hopefully my bladder isn't shot. I don't want to be catheterized for the rest of my fucking life. I already have that fucking ACE procedure. I don't need a catheter, too. Jesus fucking Christ, I just want to be fucking normal.

Thinking of all these fucking medical complications makes me wonder why I would even think about finding a guy or having a relationship? Guys want normal people. They don't want fucked up medical complications. Unless you get one of those soft, timid guys who are like, "Oh, I still love you even though you have to completely do everything through a medical procedure, and you have scars and bandages and other awkward things all over your body." Yeah, fuck that.

That's exactly not the kind of guy Rob is. Maybe Ian, but not Rob. And I like Rob, not Ian. But, like I've said many times, dating Rob wouldn't work. He works with my dad, and I'm not his type. Maybe I'm not giving him enough credit, but he doesn't seem like the type who would date my type. That's how it wouldn't work pessimistically. But logically, it wouldn't work either. He works with my dad. He talks like a guy around my dad. I'm sure he's made comments to my dad that a sane guy wouldn't make to a girlfriend's father. If it's not so bad that my dad would kill Rob (which he may or may not do), it would surely be awkward. For all parties involved. Which is why I'm just going to think Rob is attractive, and leave it at that. And not look for boyfriends at my dad's place of employment.

Even if Rob is just so damn adorable :P

"My Secrets" Survey
What's in your wallet?
Dimes and cards.

What's under your bed?
Clothes, a printer, a box of rocks, and a container of assorted stuff I brought with me to college.

What's on that way top shelf or in the very far back of your closet?
At college? I don't have a closet. At home... Jesus, it's been so long since I opened either of my closets, I couldn't tell you. Probably useless junk.

What's in your underware drawer?
Socks, bras, and underwear.

What's in the trunk of your car?
Ain't got no car!

What's in your desk or locker?
Pens, paper, junk, my tablet, more junk, some notebooks and text books... USB cords.

Do you have a super-secret hiding place and what's in it?
Um... Not really?

Do you feel guilty about something right now, if yes what?
Guilty? Um... Maybe the fact that I skipped class two days last week... But I skipped because I was in so much pain I couldn't move.

What is the most embarassing thing in your room right now?
Hmm... My teddy bear :P

Have you done something recently you hope no one finds out about?
Hm. Not sure? Probably a lot.

What is your last thought before you fall asleep?
Lazar...

How long have those leftovers been in the fridge?
At home? Who knows. At college? Not even God knows. But, I don't use the fridge here at college, and I haven't been home much.

If I confiscated your computer and took a look around....what would I find?
Documents and a few photos. Nothing bad.

Do you sleep with anything?
A blanket and two pillows. Preferably, a dog and two cats. But they're at home ):

What is your midnight snack weakness?
Chocolate. But I can't say I really do the midnight snack thing.

Have you ever you shop lifted?
Nope.

Have you ever vandalized anything?
Nope.

Ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?
What is that making reference to? Drugs? Alcohol? Sex?

What do you wait until no one is looking to do?
Pretty muchly anything.

Have you told the truth in this survey?
Yep.

Hi.

So, I think I've pretty muchly given up on this blog. The world didn't end. And the only real reason I made this blog was to chart every day of 2012 to see if I could spot any apocalyptic signs. But, guess what.

The world didn't fucking end.

Unfortunately. Because boy, would I have liked to end. And not just let the worthless, selfish, fucking stupid, retarded, asinine world to go on turning.

I hate people. And I hate the human race. I'd like to think I'm different, that I can make a difference... But I'm not much better. But still, I'm not the of the lowest level of stupidity and fucking idiocy that inhabit this fucking useless planet.

You know what I think the point of living is? To die without making a fucking fool of yourself. To die without just completely fucking up the lives and planet around you. To just kill yourself the fucking instant you're born.

Why am I feeling so cynical? I don't even know. I'm just so sick of life. And this world. And this fucking school.

I graduated from Herkimer. And now, I'm at fucking SUNY Poor Choice. Or, Purchase College, as they like to call themselves.

It's a fucking shithole. With fucking shit people who go here. Not to mention, some of the fucking worthless professors... (Well, only one bad professor that I have. The other three aren't bad. In fact, two of them are pretty awesome.)

But it's just everything I'm forced to deal with right now, and everything I've encountered the past few weeks, that makes me not want the world to keep on going. I wanted nature to throw us an apocalypse. But no, the world just had to keep going.

And, I'm not saying I should be watched for any kind of anti-social actions. I'm not going to do that. That does no good to anyone or anything. I mean, it's just a tragedy, and it breaks my heart to see people have to go through those kind of massacres. And, it's another reason I hate humanity. To think that we have individuals in our own species that could do those kind of things is... Disturbing. I'm pretty sure cats, dogs, dolphins, or even monkeys don't go off on shooting sprees. But humans do. Why? Why are we so sick, twisted, and dark? Some people are really, purely, evil. But why? Animals aren't like that. That's why I don't want to be a part of the human race anymore. All our capabilities of reason and logic really don't seem to matter much in the fact that we live in a cruel, worthless world. There's too much greed and pain that exist. So no, being human isn't worth it.

It's ironic that we call our moral character our "humanity". And barbaric tendencies are "inhumane" But really, greed and deceit and selfishness should be called our humanity. Because I want that humanity taken out of me. I don't want to be human anymore. I want to be a fucking alien or an animal or something. Anything but human.

Preferably a cat. They are soft and cute and cuddly. Already, after being home this weekend, I miss my kitties. And, of course, my puppy.