Dec. 15, 2003 @ 12:14 p.m.

To be sitting here in this flattened chair, at the age of twenty, having these thoughts and entertaining the idea of never speaking to anyone again, is just wrong. The savior of my social happiness hangs strapped to a dirty cross made of bad habits and ice cold mixtures of pure evil genius. The duct tape that binds him there is only the beginning to the mockery and cheapness of this society we live in. The stage is oiled, the balcony filled with sharpshooters and you were just told to dance. I thought I knew you, thought I liked you, I even told you that I loved you, though I didn’t mean it. So I stand here, amidst the betrayal of my own self, wondering why I could have ever thought that would be something that you wanted to hear. Now it doesn’t matter but I would like to say I’m sorry for that. I’m not sorry to you, not sorry for you, but sorry for me and how I got caught up in the emotions, like a bear trap the size of your ego, in the middle of great forest where the only thing to hear my screams are self producers and asexuals. Back track and do it again is a terrible thing to tell people. Sometimes retracing your failures is like slitting your throat, over and over again in your dreams and plans, only to wake up and find yourself doing it for real as you succeed in only permanently losing your voice and dignity. I’m undecidedly pleased to say that I completely despise who you’ve become and I’d like to think that I ended up in a better place but...I think we’re both sitting in a pile of feces laced mud on opposite sides of the river. If I had a gun, I’d shoot you down, burying you in your deserving place of dirty stank, so I could walk away with nothing but pride for my good aim and quick witted decision to use it. You know what this is...