Desire is the driving force of my (all?) existence. Desire that is incapable of ever being truly fulfilled. Is that what keeps us moving? Is that it?

I'd really like to fucking die right now.

Just dry up, shrivel up and blow away like the asexual worm that squirms through gelatinous dreams at any hour it so pleases.
Does it please you?
Please you to see me writhing within my skin's dense confines? Writing is so close to writhing.
I turn, toss and tear at tender tissue in the midst of hellish unrest. [Unintentional alliteration.] Bittersweet until my fingernails are lined with dried blood. Scabs of mental unrest. Scabs and fallen tissue of a dream once beautiful.
Illusory.
Come be real with me. Let's be snakes instead of worms. Let's swallow the prey of existential moaning and squirt our venom at the dust. Our lost skins will serve as memories. We'll keep them in shoe boxes beneath the creaking bunk beds. We live for nostalgia. Long for a time that never existed. And how I love the painful memories. This broken skin is all we have.

I feel like I'm in a fucking coma with the recent med dosage increase.
How am I supposed to get my extremely overdue school work done when I can barely keep my eyes open?
And writing down every single thing I eat, everything I feel is bringing me further down.

I feel like I'll never get better.

My laptop is in the process of dying. I hope it can make it to the end of the term. I hope hope hope. Not that I use it for anything useful or productive. But I swear it helps keep me sane in the long lonely hours of my self-inflicted solitary existence.

I could say things right now, but it'd seem too much like reruns that were never entertaining the first time around.

It's brutally cold out there. I used that, combined with meddie fatigue and menstrual cramps, as an excuse to miss class today. Yet it's so sunny and bright. I know I should find some excuse to get out there, for a little while at least.

I'm supposed to see Andria, but I could care less right now, to be honest. Don't tell her I said that.

I'd love to say I'm going to be productive this evening, but I'm tired of lying to myself.

I can't wait to see the spark of beauty in life again.

Treading through bilious murk of time taken for granted. Unable to discern whether the searing pains in my gut are pre-menstrually caused or if they're the consequence of the pervasive gorge and vomit cycle. It hurts. My stomach, ovaries, chest, throat, mouth, heart, mind and my cunt is numb.

Due dates have whizzed past and do nothing to summon motivation. I cried to my professor yesterday. I'm not sure why.

I've got a tonne of CBT homework assignments, but it all seems worthless in my despairing state. I'm afraid of disappointing my doctors. Sometimes I hate answering their questions. I hate tracing the triggers of my destructive behaviours and realizing time and again that I sometimes don't give enough of a fuck to get better.

As always, time to pick up my shit and carry on.

I got a facebook message from a guy who owns Black Bile Press saying he read one of my stories in the Moose & Pussy and he's interested in publishing some of my fiction. The problem is, I haven't written a complete story in close to a year now. I've been creatively barren, for the most part. So, instead of feeling good about myself like I probably should be right now, I feel useless because I haven't been writing.

Brandon says "Well, use that as motivation to start writing. Just sit down and write".
Thanks for the input, champ. Go wax one of your snowboards or something.

Ryst says "Congratulations, Shaiber! That's great!"
and then
"You're one of the only people I know who gets depressed by something that should make you feel good about yourself".
I say "you're the exact same way" to which he replies "I know. That's why we always got along so well".

Aside: I'd like to fuck Dr. Oz.

Every morning when I blow my nose, there are blood clots from a nosebleed I never had.

One time in the middle of the night, Sweetie jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. I woke up when I heard him whimpering as though he was in pain. I ran in to see him crouched over the toilet, a stream of blood literally flowing from his nose into the bowl. There was blood on the floor, the sink, the wall. He made me leave the bathroom when he started heaving.

That's the sort of thing that happens when you sharpen skates for a living and don't wear a mask, you fucking idiot.

I pick the black crust out of the corners of Dobie's eyes everyday and flick it onto the hardwood floor. She pretends to hate it, but I know she relishes every moment. Here she sits beside me, pretty as a cold-hearted cunt can be.

It seems it's taking me forever to complete simple tasks. I think the apathy has thickened my mind and clotted my thoughts.

In my dream, I was on a bridge overlooking clear, blue water, screaming the few Yiddish words I know:

"Mazel tov! Putz! Chutzpah! Bupkis! Oy vey!" over and over again.

"Hashem knows bupkis!"

I know bupkis of Hashem.

I finished the essay and I feel confident that it's the biggest piece of shit I've ever produced. But not big in that satisfying way that enormous bowel movements provide. Big as in tears you on the way out and reminds you of its horror for the next three days when you're in the shower soaping up your asshole.

B and I had an uncharacteristic amount of conflict this past week. I was thinking of jumping ship for a few minutes or so. Just a patch, I hope. I have to continuously remind myself that it's not his fault that he's unable to understand the splendorous complexities of mental illness. He's just a kid, after all. Just the sweetest little kiddo. I miss his dick.

I had more fun Saturday night than I've had in a long time. Andria's birthday party. Shanghai Karaoke. Extreme inebriation. Sang "Come as you are", but mostly just laughed. Met some cool people. Saw Lonero(!) for the first time in around five years. He's really turned into a greasy motherfucker, but he's the same old arrogant sweetheart.

When the party moved to danceville, I went back to Ian's place with he and Adam. We played drunk Bananagrams and Scrabble. We are the rulers of neologism.

I suddenly have the maddest crush on this Ian sweetie who is a computer engineer nerd, preppy as fuck and so damn cute it kills me. Absolutely hilarious. So brilliant. I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. He wants to hang out soon. I'd like to as well. But it's such dangerous territory when serious attraction is involved. And it's serious. He has a beautiful girlfriend of a few years. Yet he seems so interested in me. Asking me a million questions and just being sweet as fuck. Maybe I'm reading into it too much. Maybe he's just a super friendly guy. Maybe I have a boyfriend and should quit this destructive speculation.

And I've already fucked myself with school. It never takes long. An essay due today that I haven't even picked a topic for. Fuck me. I have no fucking drive. I just don't care. It seems like torture.

Nothing is well and good. Nothing.

I'm drowning in torrents of self-hatred.

I'm arguing daily with my love because of his inability to understand, no fault of his own. It's not exactly easy to comprehend.

I'm not working. I'm wasting hours watching awful movies and stuffing myself to the brink of explosion.

I'm terrified when I wake up, but I can't stay asleep.

I often wonder if I'm beyond help.

Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. I don't know. It just seems so fucking impossible.

I'm so lonely it aches. It stings, it burns wildly singeing my arteries bleeding to be held and loved.

I'm not a huge fan of feeling this way.

I hate how there are certain things that happen that I'd only like to tell Ryan about because he's the only one who'd remember or care. For instance, in today's tutorial we talked about how the reappropriation of the word rape in casual dialogue serves to normalize it and lessen its severity and seriousness. Stuff like "I totally raped that exam". Some nasty looking British chick brought up the example of someone once "complimenting" her by saying she looked "rapeable". All I could think about, following the initial shock of somebody actually saying that to an ogre of her calibre, was when Ryan used to say I felt "rapeably soft" or that he was taking me to "Camp Molest" or "Camp Rape", more affectionately known as simply "The Camp".

I understand why people get upset about certain issues, and there's nothing wrong with feeling passionately about them and speaking one's mind, but sometimes in classes like these all I'm thinking is "Get the sand out of your cunts. Life's too short to take everything so seriously." Although I need to keep in mind that my sense of humour may exist somewhere slightly outside of the "normal" sphere.

Rape is terrifying, it's awful and nobody doubts that. But if you honestly believe that by using the word more lightly it's going to make people feel that the act of rape is just as acceptable, I find that just as problematic.

On a similar note, my TA doesn't understand or appreciate satire. I, in turn, don't understand nor appreciate her. Mud cunt of a sasquatch.

Thoroughly fatigued for no real reason. Although, I did increase the gaba dosage, so maybe that has something to do with it.

Really struggling with the aching heart today for no real reason. Although, my love lives 3 hours away, so maybe that has something to do with it.

Also feel like I'm mourning the loss of Ryan. The more I think about it, the more it seems as though we never actually broke up. We never stopped talking or being there when the other needed it. I know it's obvi for the best seeing how our friendship is so fucking volatile, but for some reason my mind suddenly spews out happy memories of him. Like when he came into the bedroom when I was folding laundry, grabbed the freshly folded pile of my undies and threw them into the air yelling "Underwear explosion!" I remember being pissed for half a second before I saw the adorably mischievous look on his face and dissolved into laughter. Those little memories that will never be replaced or recreated. They ache sometimes.

And although things are getting consistently better with B-cup, I feel like I'm always going to miss certain aspects of mine and R-rod's relationship. When I get all weeptastically nostalgico, I need to fixate on his blatant assholery. Besides, if I talk to Ryan again and Brandon finds out about it, he just might drive to Mtl to beat the fuck out of him. And why does such violent jealousy turn me on?

I'm so fucking horny anymore that I feel like one big gaping hole oozing snatch marmalade wherever it ventures. Which really isn't anywhere beyond the school or the grocery store.

I've also been thinking about a line from a preview of some movie that keeps reverberating, something to the effect of "Think of all your best memories. Now think of how many of those you spent alone".

A resounding zero.

Yet, I so often relish my isolation in a sickly romantic way. It's so hard to become more social when most people are total douchebags.

Fun fact: Women used to douche with Lysol!!!

Is the trick to behave like a normal person and hope that the thought processes follow?

I can't stand being in my own skin right now. It repulses me. Every inch of it.

What's the trick to remaining positive and optimistic? To pretend that I am and hope that everything else falls into place? To just act how I'd like to be? To pickle cucumbers with my snatch and snack on them when the binge urge attacks?

I'm struggling to cope with the expansion of my fat cells. I feel entirely out of control and, above all else, weak.

But let's stay posi here!

The future is so very bright and promising.

There's a massive binge in my belly ingested hier soir. Why I do these things to myself, I don't know. I haven't purged since before new year's, so that's something. But I don't want to be Fatty McGee. I've got this list of "distress tolerance skills" that seem wonderful in theory, but I can't seem to put them to use. I think about them and then carry on shoveling bowls of cereal down my gullet. Oh gluttony, you ravage me.

My gunt hurts so much I don't even want to work out. It seems I'd rather wallow in a starchy heap of guilt and shame.

I need to get out today. -29 chill sounds so welcoming. I want the cold burn on my face, my fingers, my thighs.

I can't stop farting. It's atrocious. I'm surprised my cats haven't passed out from the ferocious fumes. Give it time.

I gave up on Pride and Prejudice after 100 pages and downloaded the six-part mini-series instead. When I started watching it, I wanted to slit my throat, but I somehow got into it. It's inexplicable. Brit Lit 2 is fucking insufferable. The entire Victorian era can go fuck itself. It gives the prof such a hard on too. He can't understand why we aren't interested in tales of young women whose sole goal in life is to find a rich husband who will support them. Dumb cunts.

Watching both The Fifth Estate last night and 20/20 made me ill. So very ill. Nearly as ill as I feel right now.

I'm going to go to Walmart, buy shit I need, come home and gouge out my eyes.

Crammed into my too-tight jeans my legs look like stubby sausages. Gloriously grease-laden. I don't want my mood to be controlled by something as trivial as my shape, but it fucking is and I'm struggling to change it. I was told on Tuesday that I'll have to be weighed when I start the CBT group in a couple of weeks and it can't be blind. I'm bombarded by the irrational urge to drop as much weight as possible. It's all-consuming. I have little motivation to accomplish much else. Eating disorders are so much fun.

There's a woman who walks through the building holding an infant. She sings to him in a language I can't understand. She glares at me when I walk past her in the stairwell. I glare back. She pisses me off so much that I'd like to punch her baby in the head.

Already balls deep in school work and the term has barely begun. I still feel so fucking unmotivated. I was hoping the break would restore my energy somewhat, but if anything it's made me dread the next few months even more than I was previously. All hail the passage of time. Whisking it away, always waiting, weighting, wishing it all away until there's nothing left.

Sweetie's working his sexy hands to the boner. He says he's doing it for us. Saving money for when we get our place in the Spring. Saving money so he can take care of me. I want to be taken care of. Fuck knows I'm not entirely capable. I've never allowed myself to be. I'm such a louse. I latch on to people and just suck and drain them of any bloody morsel I can. I don't feel bad about it. Let's just accept it and move on.

My glands are swollen up like fleshy blimps. Not from sickness, just memory and expectation.

Monday morning I watched 3 helium balloons go sailing across the building tops. Red, white and black. No symbolism involved, just an observation. I wondered if it was a little kid who let them go just to see how high they'd get.

I struggle. Not to love, but to fulfill love's more conventional expectations. I struggle to be honest, to not tell him lies. You see, I do it for his benefit. I don't want to tell him the truth about things I know will upset him. My selective honesty is nothing other than self-serving betrayal. I don't always feel guilty about it. Guilt is such a useless emotion anyway.

I struggle to be faithful. I can't remember the exact number of times I've fucked around on him. More than ten, but less than twenty. I flirt uncontrollably. I tell other guys I'd like to bang them. Yet I tell him he satisfies me. That there could never be anyone else.

You can't satisfy the insatiable fuckhole.

When I imagine revealing the truth to him, I see his face collapsing beneath the weight of his massacred heart and it kills me. It fucking kills me.

That's why I'll never tell him.

It's been hard. Wildly uncircumcised cock-hard deep within my abysmal uterus. The menstruation is helping, as it generally tends to.

What joyous hell the past two weeks have been. The kind of hell that scalds your tongue at first sip, yet tastes so sweet you can't wait long enough for it to cool.

I'm so thoroughly in love that the lust is finally secondary. I want him to be my everything. My all-consuming endless white of compassionate blizzards and avalanche. Those eyes that spark up and wrinkle at the edges when he looks at moi. The sporadic nose freckles. The cheek lines that deepen when he smiles. I love him and it's all so catastrophically beautiful. Disgustingly so.

When I'm in love, the loved one becomes my entire universe. I think of little else. I can't fathom existing without them. And why should I bother? Because to be this way is unbalanced and ill. It's needy and dependent. That's how I've always been and I have little desire to change. That makes it all okay.