I'm thinking if it wasn't for my writing, I would have been either locked in jail convicted of murder or sealed away in a special high security double padded cubicle in a distant mental institute.
I don't know how I'm still going. I'm not a strong person. I come from two strings of gene pools filled with violent rebels and weak females who crack under pressure. Again, I thank God for my writing.
If someone breaks off an engagement after a year and tells you to start getting your stuff together, and gives you a due date by when you're supposed to move out, that means you're broken up. BROKEN UP. IT'S OVER. So WHY the HELL is he discussing happiness and relationship jazz and emotional humps and...ugh, fuggit, I just want to get out of here, this guy is going to kill me. My heart is just gonna suffocate from all the pain and I'm gonna keel over and (x_x). I can't take this.
Why do I always drink coke after I've munched on sugar coated sweeties? It tastes like toothpaste turned into a drink. BLEAH!
I want to go home. I have no friends here. I have no family here. I don't fit in.
But then, even if I do go home...I can't go home. I can't. I can't put myself back in that half-traumatized condition of living. I can't do that to my kids, I can't bring them back into such a fragile and deadly environment.
Why does my life have to suck piles?