Birthday wishes to myself

"You like the smell of blood
When it's pumpin' like a factory
Ooh, you like your words to cut
You like to choose the best artillery
I wonder who you're thinkin' of
Who am I
Am I the epitome
Of everything you hate
And you desire
You love me like an enemy"




Today was my birthday. Not one of my IRL friends wished me a happy day. I got a few dozen facebook wishes, but no one else seemed to remember.*

And you know what?

I don't even care.

My best friend never remembers, and besides he's in graduate school and I know it's busy around this time of year. But even so, it doesn't even bother me a little that no one else called or emailed. I hate being the centre of attention. When I opened my gifts from my mother (jeans, a new shirt, and a little cash) I was embarrassed because she didn't have anything to open -even though it was just the two of us. That's why I like Christmas so much because I can give back and not always be the focus of all the attention

*Obviously everyone in my family remembered, but that point is excusable for the sake of my thesis.

I don't really associate birthdays with a particular emotion. I mean it's nice to get gifts, naturally, but I've always gotten more pleasure from giving than receiving. When I was at university one time my mother made me a cake and my girlfriend brought it over to my apartment and we had birthday sex and then cake and then more sex. That was pretty nice.

Other than that specific birthday, I don't really remember many to be that great. It's exactly three weeks before Christmas, so that's pretty cool. But a lot of times I get combo presents since they're so close together.

I really want to hurt myself. I've been thinking a lot recently about getting into cutting. I don't really know how to explain my thoughts on the subject without seeming overly-emo (nigh impossible given that I'm listening to The Letter Black right now), but I'll do my best: It just seems like a way to excite my nerves. Without swerving lanes while I'm driving or playing chicken with a freight train, nothing gets my nervous system off. With all the drugs I'm on, even masturbating is a huge chore, and I don't have enough money for narcotics. I just feel so bleh all the time, and I feel that through pain I could get off a little bit (both metaphorically and realistically).

Some of this no doubt is a result of my boredom. I'm trying as hard as I can to start my next novel, but it's so much effort to put finger to keyboard in any meaningful way. I've got the plot all worked out, so all there's left to do is make a playlist and actually put my ass in a chair and write. I just can't do it. I don't feel empathy for the characters yet, even though one of them is named Triple-T and is an agoraphobic clown murderer.

WHAT THE FUCK EVER

I don't even know what's going on anymore. I bought some nice shit today for my sisters for Christmas. I bought a DVD for my brother, since he's working on a cruise ship and isn't allowed to have many things. It's Man on Fire, which is a fucking excellent film

I meant to use this site as sort of a personal diary because it's so fucking difficult to keep track of the passage of time. I put up nice coloured lights around my computer room the other day so I'm in the holiday mood; I know that once I stop separating each day with a meaningful occasion, the holiday will be over, the lights will be down, and I'll be wondering what the fuck just happened.

I will probably start shitposting here more often. I feel that even if I rant in unstructured free verse like this, it might exercise my mind to the point where I can at least fap again. I just don't find anything arousing anymore, besides maybe my huge Suicide Girls collection. Those girls are hot as fuck -at least for the most part- and I would definitely sprout decent wood if I ever met one in real life.

OK peace assholes. I'm going to go watch more Good Wife and then also Brazilian carnival orgy porn.