My mom says I need to get happy. Fast. But the problem is: I just can't. It's not like my emotions are some fucking switch that goes on and off. No. Hell no.
It's my favorite word ever. What word? Hell. And no, I'm not shitting you. When I'm in my room, decorating the inside of my thighs with red and some wide, open lines, I try to spell the word. Truth be told, it's not as easy as you think. It takes a lot of concentration to do both things, actually. If I screw up, it'll hurt more than I need it to. Notice how I said need, and not want. Want to know why? It's because I'm dependent on it. If I don't, I'll get pissed off at the world like some moody teenage girl who's bleeding from her vagina. Oh well.
Almost usually (that makes absolutely no sense if you actually think about it) I have these tiny packets of salt that the employees of McDonalds constantly give to us. I swear, they even gave me salt when I got their yogurt parfaits. Dick heads. Even people I don't know are against me. The salt feels incredible in my slashes. It burns so bad that I bite the inside of my cheeks, yet it feels absolutely blissful that I could cry from joy.
Usually, I take three of four Aleve after my session and pass out on my bed. I've learned better than the first time. I'm a sneaky little bitch. I have this extra layer of bedding on my bed, so normally, I lay on that, but no… I know better. So now, that red stuff doesn't get on my sheets and that annoying bitch everybody refers to as my mom won't "ground me."
What's the point of grounding? I mean, I'm a fucking teenager. I sneak out. I'm not perfect. There goes that word again. Perfect. What's the perfect grounded child? Answer: a mindless android who's a fucking godsend from hell. Make sense? Yeah, it makes perfect sense.
Guess what? I'm not bipolar. I'm not some sick dude who enjoys mutilating my skin. That's not me. Not me. But… I really don't know how to explain this to you. It's not like I enjoy it, and I don't dislike it. The "random slashes" I make just give me this wonderful sense of euphoria, and then once it crashes, I'm back to slash one. See how I didn't say "square one?" It's because I'm not a shit head. Cutters can be intelligent too.
Triskaidekaphobia. Care to know yet another secret? I'm completely and utterly terrified of the number thirteen, thus me having the diagnosis of triskaidekaphobia. There's always a reason for everything. Like there's a reason I have fourteen slashes on both thighs instead of thirteen.
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Review please, my lovlies ;)
-Jia