Hi, I finally hate myself.
Monday, 8/5/02 - 8:19 am.

After getting off bed, I got a pencil and marked the calendar. August 5th, 2002. Another day goes by.

This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time.

It's just another day, another sunday if you will. Well, now that I think about it, today is something. It's just another anniversary. But it's ok, I'm over it.

Last night I got a call from Cel. Well, what do you know...they were already home by the time I was writing yesterday's entry.

She told me the basics about the trip. It was cool, she hung out with a lot of people, and mostly with Art. They were together the whole time and were kind of antisocial. If you heard what they both did (and what they did not do), you'd have no doubt they're in love. People in love do not need to prove anything to themselves. I almost cried when I heard what she told me. If things continue this way, they're getting married in a few years.

Of course I got the usual you should've been there! and we thought of you!, which I really appreciate coming from her because she really means it. Aside from that, she told me about Elsy's gang, that got drunk practically during the entire trip. They fucked up the fun. For what she tells me, everything was cool, except for those girls and the people they dragged down, like Patch and Pablo.

It was a long talk, and I was very glad everything went ok. But after I hung up, I had some feeling....I felt uncomfortable.

Later on, I got an e-mail from Norman, telling me his side of the story. The usual "it was cool!" and shit. The pastoral gang drank self-made drinks, smoked...I could've been impressed and shocked by that statement, but honestly, stuff like that does not impress me anymore. A lot of people I know smoke. I mean, I'm not 9 years old, I don't go "Ohmygoshyousmoke! don't talk to me". I know smoking is a hobby, and even sometimes a vice. It's like collecting baseball cards or masturbating. Only it can give you cancer.

I watched Excess Baggagge on TV last night. I was afraid to go to bed because I knew I'd have insomnia. Luckily, Alan was watching TV at around 11:00 and I stayed with him. I watched Bring it on. There's something I don't like about Kirsten Dunst. It might be those S's that get in the way when you're pronunciating her name. It was a nice movie, I guess. It kept me up until 12:30 am. If you want to hear the moral I got: cheerleading it's more than shaking your pretty ass. How cute.

Some bad feeling woke me up at 6:15 am. And I had some kind of black fog inside, that was making me feel that bad. Do you regret not going? I don't know. I don't think so. Do you feel bad because of something related to the trip? I guess.

I don't know how to put it in words. But I started crying. My life is too goddamn easy. I'm a boring person. I don't do anything. My life has always been the same. I've always lived in the same house, I've always gone to the same school...and my whole world is practically just those two places. Imagine the terrible routine I'm stuck to. And that I pretend to be happy with, because it's very easy.

But what the fuck is the problem? You wanna know what the fuck is the problem? I am the problem. I'm too fucking healthy, I'm too fucking rational, I'm too fucking introvert, I'm too fucking coward, I'm too fucking comfortable, and my life is too fucking easy.

I thought of my friends...yeah, they smoke. They drink. Not too much (except for Vic, Pablo...the gang), but they do once in a while. They go out, have fun. I don't. These sundays I've stayed home. With my parental units. You know what they say? They'll focus on me and will try to stay home with me as much as they can, until I graduate (for the record, they're in their 60s, so they don't have a 9 to 5 job). For fuck's sake, I don't want that!!! My mom always asks me if I want to go out somewhere. With my parents? Where? I want them to leave me alone. Honestly, thank you for taking the time to raise me properly, God bless your souls, but by now you're becoming something excessive. Why don't they keep their distance?

I live in a golden cage. I have no place to go, there's no place here that draws my attention and that I'd like to be with my friends (read: Art and Cel). There's no place I could go to without my parents. Except my room. And that's where I'm gonna be the whole day, that's why I'm writing earlier than the usual, I hope I'll stay in there the whole day (unless Art and Cel come over, they said they would).

I hate myself like I haven't since I had a crisis when I was going into puberty (but hey, that was justified). I am pissed off for not being able to find a way out, for not having the balls to make me go out with my friends (no, I don't regret not going to Honduras...I hate masses), I hate myself for being so fucking introvert.

I put on Rocks very early this morning. I consider it the darkest Aerosmith record. Just exactly what I needed...something like me. Combination is the song.

I felt that if I had gone on the trip, I'd have hated people more than I do now. I'd have had fun, I don't doubt it...but despite everything, I don't have a real connection with my classmantes, with their own little, closed groups. "Friends" is something very relative and not very significant, unless we're talking about Art and Cel, Vic....(...and I think those are all).

I though of Vic. I'm sure he smoked a lot during the trip. The gang was taking around $100 in cigarettes and alcohol. Vic always carries a small box with a few cigarettes, he showed it to me. But he's not the kind of person that offers you. They're not dealers, they know they're killing themselves and don't want you to be as stupid as they are....either that, or they're selfish. But in my case, I guess he doesn't offer them to me because he knows it's dangerous. He's always calling me down when I hurt myself.

Ok, long story short, I'll ask him for a cigarrete. I'm not gonna do it because "it's cool". I know is not cool, fuck you very much. Is not cool and it's not healthy. Can't you tell I know? Can't you tell I am aware is not good? No, is not good. But I want to do it. I'm sick of my pathetic self, one step further and I'm being canonized by the next Pope.

Why would I ever smoke? I don't know. But if there's a reason why I'd get drunk it's because I'd love to get out of myself and be more like Steven Tyler. You know, the wild 70's- early 80's Tyler. But I doubt I'll ever get drunk. I do have self-esteem, I'm not making a fool out of myself. I'll do whatever I'll do sober, so I can pretend I'm braver.

I don't want to live beyond 25. I don't want to be a psychologist. I told everybody I wanted to be an animator, but no one got it, and no one helped me. I don't want a stupid degree. I don't want to waste my life being the boring person I am.

On a brighter side, I cut myself. My first real cut, with Gillete razors and blood. It's really nothing to be proud of, you could say Frog scratched me. But at least I know I can do it. I look at it, at the fine line of blood, like an insignificant red pen mark and I feel a bit of pain. It's a pain I'm very fond of, as if it was my child.

Yes, he's coming back today. Can you tell I don't give a fuck? I mean, I do care...but I'm not in the mood for loving. Not others, let alone myself.

Although I wouldn't highly reccomend it, self-destruction is emotionally rewarding.

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