I listened to all my old sad songs tonight, the songs I used to listen to while crying, pulling my hair, cutting my arms.

They don't have the same effect; they don't invoke the same hysteria: though part of me wants them to.

There's a little part of me that wants to sulk on the bathroom floor, cutting my arms, tears running down my cheeks, my hair askew ...

Am I happy now? Is that what this is? Is that why these songs don't cause me to curl up in a ball and cry?

I go through life as though I were the Lady of Shallot, just riding the current, waiting for death. -- This dull fucking ache, this emptiness is happiness? I don't want to feel empty; I want to feel alive. At least when I was depressed, so close to suicide, I felt something; when I was cutting my skin, I felt alive ...

Tune: Puscifer, "Momma Sed"
Mood: Uninspired