You motherfuckers make me wanna slit my wrists

How many problems are only short term? How do you know what’s going to matter in 5 minutes, let alone in 10, 20, 30, or 100 years? Life is so uncertain. I might wake up tomorrow, step outside, and get hit by a bus. I don’t know. It’s like that line in “The Day After Tomorrow” where the chick says something like “I’ve been preparing for a future that no longer exists.” But humans aren’t omniscient. No one knows what’s going to happen. No one even knows for certain if they are even in control of what happens to them.

Sometimes I wish my life was a book so I could turn to the last page and see how this ends. I think, though, that if I could do that, I’d be too scared. Too scared that the words, “And she lived happily ever after” will not mark the page. People like me don’t live happily ever after. But if I knew how it ended, then could I change it? Can people change? In A Prayer for Owen Meany, Owen tries to control fate. He gets blown up in the end anyway. I don’t think fate can be altered. I think no matter what you do, you can never change what’s going to happen. You’ll always be playing into Fate’s hands. “Fate she hears me, fate stands near me, fate state clearly, whether there will be another card. Retrieve us, time deceives us, fate she hears us, but she doesn’t listen very hard.”

I wish I could go back to believe that there is no God. That people are completely alone. That things like fate and karma don’t exists. Do I believe in hell? No. I think God always give you a chance to redeem yourself. Somehow, somewhere. I never used to be such a horrible person. I wasn’t bad. I wish I could blame Them. Tell myself that it is Their fault that I turned out so cold and bitter. Fucking heartless. But I can’t even offer myself that, because I know that it’s my own weak character that got me here. My own inability to overcome the smallest obstacles, to have confidence in myself. To do anything right. To be normal. I hate myself for my weakness, but it is my self-hate that IS my weakness.

Fuck, I hate myself. I hate how I can’t feel sympathy or compassion, but I hate myself more when I do feel that twinge of emotion. Emotion is weak. Emotion is useless. I wish I wasn’t happy or sad or angry. I wish I was nothing. I hate being happy. I don’t deserve to be happy. I hate being sad. I don’t deserve that, either. Anger is inescapable. My sister said I have everyone beat when it comes to anger, as though it’s a competition. Maybe I do. I generally don’t feel angry, but when I do I want to kill. It takes all my willpower not to destroy anything and everything in my path. I hate my anger, because it makes me weak. Only weak people are angry. I’m so fucking weak.