I found myself sitting in the shower last night, with a knife. A serrated one. I didn't cut. Not really, anyway. It takes so much more effort with a knife, with a serrated blade...if I had razors in this house, this would be a different story. Instead of one pathetic half inch long mark that could actually pass for a cat scratch, I'd...well...I'd have the same fucking thing on my arm that I do right now. What's the difference between 63 ugly, fat scars, and 100 of them?

I found myself sitting in the shower last night, with a knife. In my vagina. I certainly didn't cut there, either. But it did scare the shit out of me.

I really just wanted to feel something. I wanted to get drunk, I wanted to eat, I wanted to binge and purge, I wanted to not eat, I wanted to swallow all of the pills that I've been hoarding over the past year.

Sad thing is, the biggest thing that stopped me from slicing the shit out of myself or taking every little pharmaceutical that I had was that one of my best friends is visiting me tomorrow. I can't be put on a 72 hour hold while he's supposed to be here, that wouldn't be very...polite, now would it?

No one knows what to say. They all change the subject. No one cares, they think that if they ignore it, they can push it away. All they end up doing is ignoring me, and pushing me away. Further and further, back into the hole.

Holed up, alone. This is where I belong.

Never get a $150 parking ticket in Denver.

One hundred twenty dollars.

One hundred twenty dollars to buy me, to feel justified in doing what you did to me. The way you thrust those twenties into my hand, eagerly whipping out your wallet as you would so eagerly whip out your cock just a few hours later.

Did you always think that I was a whore?

I remember you always making jokes about girls "ordering the lobster" on dates. Jokes...but this is truly the way that you think, isn't it?

It's no wonder I threw up most of the meals you ever bought for me. They were laced with entitlement, poisoning me like cyanide.