The Diary of a Bitch

I'm Fucking Sorry

Tuesday October 6, 2015

Yeah, I've been absent. It's a miracle I'm even passing school at this point. But it's my senior year and I'm taking mostly elective classes anyway.

Friday, Luke wasn't at lunch. I got really sad and couldn't focus on anything but the fact that my only company was missing- so I was unable to write. Thursday night, I had gone to see Ellen, and though it wasn't as bad as I had originally presumed it was going to be, I still disliked what was said. She continues to bring up Daniel, and on top of all that, I feel like she's noticed my self-destructive shift. But she's made no mention of it as of yet.

I texted Luke once Friday, asking where he was, and received no reply.

Friday night I did homework and chores before going to bed on an empty stomach.

Saturday, I woke up with a headache, drank some coffee, and rearranged my room. After, I showered. Then I ate a can of tomato soup. Though it was only to fill the void. It wasn't five minutes before I'd gone to the bathroom and excavated the thick, blood-colored substance. Disgusted, I took a nap in my crisply made bed- my sheets fresh from the dryer. I woke up a few hours later and watched a movie with my sister. Then I went on a walk around my neighborhood and sat in a park, just looking at the sky. We're all so very small and insignificant. The stars have taught me that I am just a fraction of this universe, as are all of you. My disappearance will have little impact.

Monday, I slept in until noon. Then woke up to my mother yelling at me about missing school. I told her I didn't care, that I have 95% of my credits anyway. She made me go shopping for groceries with her, then took me out to eat. She kept asking me how I was doing, etc. I told her fine. She asked me if I'd made any friends. I told her no. I'm not ready to discuss Luke yet. She asked me about college and I told her I planned on majoring in Creative Writing. She seemed a little worried, because it is quite obvious that the demand for books has been dropping- but I remained adamant. That is my true calling, anyway.

Today, still no Luke... I'm writing at the lunch table, alone... I'm really hungry- but there's no time.

I'm starting to heal up again, and I don't like it. The disappearing marks only give me further motivation create more- to possibly dig deeper and leave a lasting, fleshy canal. Who's going to stop me anyhow? My family did naught but throw me into therapy. Certainly none of you will stop me. Remember who I am, after all, I'm a bitch. I am cruel, heartless, and ruthless.

I comment on stories I have no interest in reading, simply to correct grammar, spelling, and punctuation. I comment on amphigoric works with the sole purpose of tearing them apart. I rip them to shreds and destroy any confidence the author might have had. I'm seemingly apathetic; I appear malevolent.

But I assure you, I'm only this way so I can "minimize the casualties," (to quote a famous novel).