this life. it's like my mother naturally wants me to hate myself by making me hate her.
murder has never seemed so goddamn fucking ethical.
why can't we give people--like my mother--a second goddamn chance at happiness?
or do we? and my mom is just too much of a fucking asshole to realize what happiness oughta look like?
it's probably the latter. you shouldn't be bawling your eyes out this much: but my mother has found a way.
I have to drink more. Always more.
chug. chug. chug. forget it all. the only thing holding you back. has already left a hole in your head too massive to hide underneath antidepressants and ADHD medications and unlimited ethanol. better off dead. where people can't leave you. where you'll never feel alone.
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