For once I'm bleeding through my fingers and not my thighs. Maybe I'll have some great revelation tonight. But probably not. I just keep coming back to those words I became captivated with awhile ago: I'm not real. I can't possibly be real. This is all just a very bad dream sequence and some REAL girl is going to wake up tomorrow and be like,
"Fuck, I wonder what that meant…"
This is a bad spin-off of an even worse television show. They will write books about me and they will analyze the fuck out of me and still get nowhere. I've been IN me for eighteen years and I still don't understand me. I'm going to stay up all night and keep writing and writing so I won't have to face the damage done tomorrow because tomorrow and today will just meld together into one. I hate falling asleep because I always wake up to tragedy and it's even worse when my own words created it – and they always do. I create the drama at night so I can bitch about it in the morning and I weave lies into my confessions so I can see who knows me well enough to call me out on it. Marry me; borderlines are never boring.