11:29 a.m. | 2013-10-03
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Well, this is the most suicidal I've ever felt on a birthday.

Sorry, diaryland, I just don't think I'm capable of writing happy things. Of being happy. Of finding purpose. Of being okay with the meager amount of love I've found in this world, but also of being frustrated enough to go out and fix it.

And that's what it comes down to, isn't it? I'm not strong enough, or good enough, or determined enough. I just don't give a shit. Mixed with not giving a shit is a healthy dose of fear that prevents me from offing myself like I think about literally constantly these days. I'm so tired of waxing poetic about DOING THINGS and never fucking doing them. This is a choose-your-own-adventure book, self, and the two options are clear. Just pick one for the love of god.