Evidently, this is a blog about a cutter. Cutting yourself for the purpose of ritual scarring might be cool if you're some kind of warrior or something and would be embarrassed to show a leg without one, but-- well, we'll see.
http://icysetterwind.deadjournal.com/
Anyway there it is. Most recent post marked today: June 13, 2008.
And perhaps it happened as it should, so I shouted out, "This pain feels good!"
There's this computer game I have called "Dawn of War" and in it there's this group of enhanced superhuman warriors called space marines, and sometimes they bow to these evil gods called the Chaos Gods and become chaos space marines, and they say shit like this. Somehow it's more convincing when a 10,000 year old 9 foot tall super warrior with a tentacle for a hand screams this at you.
Next entry below--
Oh. My. God. Are you serious?
I don't know whether to laugh or cut. But whichever I choose, I know if I start now, I'll never stop.
ETA: Decision made.
Well apparently you did stop because there's a further entry.
Next entry is so incoherently disconnected from anything I might call reality that I'm skipping it.
June 20th, 2008:
Connecticut is killing me. I called my mom. I'm going home after the last orientation of June. Bye.
At first I thought this was a cute pun, "ConnectiCUT" but apparently no. Also you're on the internet, you putz, so you could be posting this from a cave on Titan for all I know and it would have exactly the same amount of bearing on me.
And the clouds roll back in.
I just vomited everything I ate and scratched off the first three layers of skin on my left arm with my nails alone. I have to wear a t-shirt tomorrow.
I still can't breathe. Thank God for Carly and Mindy.
I'm going back to my apartment tomorrow afternoon and hiding until orientation on Monday.
Sounds like a serious epileptic attack. Might want to have that examined. Next entry:
combat boots and rubber bands
knife held ready in shaking hands
peroxide and razor blades
pretty new scar, made just today
slashes hide under faded clothes
smile screwed on, no one knows
but the blood remembers, yes, indeed
cold, cruel air as out it bleeds
band-aids, gauze, and broken skin
bless me father, i'll still do it again
poor little boy, life's a disaster
i say, try it again, just a little bit faster
What can I say? I can't get enough of bad fucking poetry. One line I'd like to mention in particular: "cold cruel air as out it bleeds". This kind of bizarre structure makes sense when you're ramming that shit into some sort of meter or rhyming scheme, but this isn't a rhyming poem, and indeed seems to follow no meter. Ah-- "poor little boy"? Well I'd be lying if I said that was expected. So we have this kid in combat boots because that's hardcore, with rubber bands (?) and a knife. Peroxide handy because yeah, if you're going to cut yourself open you want to at least sanitize the wound. NOT BEING CRAZY HERE, GUYS. I do have to wonder, though, if he's just completely normal about his psychotic self destructive tendencies. I don't suppose he sanitizes the area around where he's going to cut?
Also I like how he's specific about "peroxide" instead of rubbing alcohol, which would do a better job at cleaning the wound, I would think. I guess that stings and he's too much of a pussy to bear it.
Although, on the other hand, he is cutting himself.
Ah, whatever, this raises too many questions.
June 18th, 2008:
"Yeah, well I didn't say I wasn't pissed off... I know you think you're scary and damaged."
"...Dark and twisted."
"It makes you feel like you don't deserve good things, but you do."
It seems strange to take something from a television show so close to heart. But I did.
I model my way of thinking around fictional characters all the time. Fictional characters are way cooler than real people, so there's no shame in that.
Although I might say you're doing it wrong. See, most people who do this relate to the character they like the most, not the wimpy pussy, and-- ohhh, shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. You're that guy in real life, aren't you? The guy that can't take a joke and always looks like he's going to cry?
Lighten up, toots.
So this post continues for 15000 words not unlike one of my own, so I'll cut this down to a reasonable word count:
He said I went from being very relaxed and happy go lucky to jumpy, irritable, and, for lack of a better word, sad.
Wow. This borders on shocking, quite frankly. I cannot imagine you when you're really depressed. That must be like the fucking apocalypse. If this is you when you're irritable and sad, then I cannot imagine what would happen if you had real problems.
This whole post seems to be about some kind of relationship nonsense that could probably be solved with a simple "get over it and shape the fuck up" but I'll never know because I'm not reading all of this.
This blog goes back to 2002. It jumps from 2002 to 2008. That's a six year gap. I'm going way back to see if this blubbering sad sack kept this shit up for six entire years.
Huh, all of the entries from 2002 seem to be gone. I guess the I'll never know or care.
So back to star date 2008:
I just added to my collection of scars.
And took my first Lexapro in months. I wish I had some Xanax.
With a response:
This really isn't good for you, I'm really upset over this.
On the contrary, medicating is what he needs. A little evening out. In fact, I'm going the exact opposite of what this guy thinks, I think you need something better than Lexapro. You need some Diazepam.
Yes sir, Diazepam would fix most of your problems. Muscle spasms, seizures (that one event had to be epileptic in nature) as well as evening out your mood. If you're an insomniac, guess what? You aren't anymore!
I think you can get it under the commercial name Valium. Seriously, look into it.
So in conclusion, to not be like this guy:
cheer the fuck up. Nobody likes to be entertained by depressed people, except for ghouls like me.
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