I'm sure I just hurt my mommy by saying that I didn't want to go with them. Why would I want to? It's just another chance to be caged, and I'm not gonna get my shorts out of it. Oh, did I mention it's gonna be 90-something and the only clean, non-ripped shorts I have show off my ass? Did I mention we supposedly have no money? I'm calling bullshit on that. Still, I'm gonna wear the pink short-shorts and a fuckin tank top so their least cared about child won't pass out from fuckin heat.
Maybe one day I'll be as good as C, H, A, or B. Maybe one day you'll realize that I only wanted to be your perfect daughter, the one you actually love. Not the person I am not, the one you sometimes shower in gifts, as though to say you love me, but the yelling and expecting too much and obviously hating me remains.
It's true, no one makes me pick up the razor except myself. These scars go both ways, though. You make me hate what's there, so I try to get rid of it. Lookie, Mommy, Daddy! I need you! Do you love me yet? Because I swear these cuts are getting deeper and it really hurts, but I want you to care. If taking me to a therapist once a month reminds you that you need to care, than I'm fine hurting myself.
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Oh my goth (don't ask, I've been saying it all day), I saw "Super Size Me" a few weeks ago, americaneaglelove. It made me not wanna eat, but then we went to McDonald's and I had the smallest meal among the people there. And thanks. I need A LOT of luck these days.
JT, this isn't a weight loss blog, though such a thing may come up. This is my hell. This is me letting out emotions I would otherwise keep to myself. This is me looking for a connection and understanding. I'm sorry that I sound snippy. I'll take a look at your blog, but I only actually follow ones I really like, that way I don't feel bad for not reading 39430583490583490 posts a day.
Remember, cutting hurts. Heck, starving hurts.
Alright, toodles for now.
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