Do you know what it feels like to ram the entire inch of a safety-pin into your leg when you're blinded by hate? By rage? I do. It feels like nothing. No nerves pulsing excitedly. No waves of satisfaction to calm you down like usual. So you do it again, and again. And again. Like you're stabbing your rapist to death. But there's no blood. Why isn't there? Oh wait, there is. It just came flooding out.

There is no feeling. No pain. Just the sickening pop of the pin sliding in and out of your taught skin, and the violent convulsions you get when you're mad.

You hate him more than anything. You want to punch him, break him, tear him to shreds. You stopped yelling after he said that. How could he say that? Well he said it. "Fine. Hack away" as though he didn't care. Coming up with a pathetic lie as "oh I thought you meant mentally! Please don't hurt yourself!" After he realized what he had suggested. What a stupid fight, why can't he see your content the way you are? Yeah. He's pathetic. And I hate him.

How dare he claim he knows me, that damn Jew. He doesn't know what it's like to die all the time, most of those deaths being beatings from your own goddamn parents: too poor and angry to afford a punching bag. He doesn't know what it feels like sliding razors, scissors and knives across your skin, or puncturing it with pins and needles.

I don't see it as that faggy ass "self-harm" crap though. I'm really just stimulating my nerves. And that stupid red-haired boy thinks it's bad for me. Wants me to quit, wants to "help" me. He says he loves me, yet wishes me to abuse myself. Like hell he's in love with me. You don't say that to your love. He's a liar and I hate him.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't such a narcissistic ass. But I can't love. I just can't. And he can't get it through his stupid Jew brain that I don't love him and never will. Stupid cunt.

But he was my best friend once upon a time, and I care for him in that manner: care more than I do about anyone else. Maybe it's not a lot, but it's enough for me to at least realise I'm hurting him. Regardless, I'm not quitting this little thing I got going on, and he can suck my cock. Hell, he probably would if I asked him to.

I would rip each and every tooth of his out, and grin at his wails. I'd pry off each of his fingernails and toenails and stare on as he writhed in pain. I'd hook my slender fingers into the crooks of his trachea and yank it out, watching the life drain from his shining green orbs, as does the blood, while he gasps feebly for air. Violent? Yes. Harsh? Yes. But I wouldn't ever harm a single curly red hair on his body, I'm just sputtering pathetic lies. They're as pathetic as his own. Maybe I'm just jealous of his beautiful innocence: so untainted. So pure and perfect. Damn him.

But he made me do it. Made me hurt inside, so the only solution is for me to hurt outside. I'm the only one whose allowed to hurt me, that's the rule. I will put my foot down and ensure he is no longer my friend. I want him gone. Forever. I want him back with Stan and out of my life. But this is not fantasy, it's reality. And you do still crave his attention, whether you love him or not. Selfish? Yes.

Well he ruined my record. A whole fucking month of abstaining from my destructive cynical ways, trying to quit for him despite my disagreement on the topic. The ways he wants me to stop and the promise I ensured that I would all being lies.

But now there's long, ragged cuts scraping down your ribs and wrists, and your dried blood is staining the sheets in rows of red. The aching sting of pain pulses, and it sets on fire when you touch them. Shallow? Yes they are. But they're enough for now, all 108 of them, while you sit there stupidly grinning with pure satisfaction, soaking in bliss. It feels good.

Maybe it ain't such a bad life after all.