There’s a name for this disease: it’s called Fuck You, It’s My Life.

September 21, 2005

I’m consumed by this,

This self-loathing and other odd emotions.

I probably shouldn’t be feeling this.

My therapist feels sorry for me

And I can’t say that I blame her.

The instructions on the back of the box aren’t helping.

The damn medication isn’t working.

My insecurities are taking over.

It’s all I can think about.

Mostly words and no action.

I’m a fake and a liar.

You shouldn’t look up to me.

Read the signs.

Didn’t you get the memo?

What to do. What to do.

I can’t decide between my happiness and yours.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

You shouldn’t be thinking like that.

No brain. No.

The mirror’s broken.

Are you sure you need to eat that?

No, but it makes me feel better.

Shame on you for lying like that.

The medication is in the garbage.

I threw it out along with my common sense.

I need this. You need this.

It won’t hurt anyone but me.

This self-loathing is going to be erased.

Replaced with diet coke and green tea.

The sugary sweetness of your fake smiles makes me gag.

Here’s the number for my therapist.

You two have a lot in common.

Pity me. Pity me.

I don’t care anymore.

I’m going to be happy. Happy.