Sometimes the world is not so terrible if we just talk about how terrible it is.
Squalor is cozy to me and I love to place myself in situations of potential danger. My recklessness does not please me. I know that my sordid tastes are the expression of a death wish—I want to punish myself—I want to punish other people—I long to be alone but I long to be loved. The pain I feel is leading me into darkness.
I feel so awkward and ugly and naive and lonely. Maybe I should kill myself maybe I should paint a picture. I always want to be touched. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.