you want to know what I really think?

You really want to know my problem with diaries like that? If you’re in hell, don’t just say, “Hey look at me I’m in hell,” fucking show me that you’re in hell. I don’t want to see flashing lights and neon signs and see that, wow, this diarist is in hell… I want to feel dark and I want to feel your pain and I want to have to READ to figure out what the problem really is, what you’re going through, and determine for myself that, hey, look at that – you must be going through hell.

To the person I apologized to… my apology remains – I felt pain through your diary, and am quite thankful I never saw the word hell anywhere on it.

Now, for all of those out there really in hell, I’m truly sorry, and you’re right, I have no fucking clue what you’re going through. To those of you punk-ass-bitch-teeny-boppers (I’ve always wanted to actually use that) out there who think the world doesn’t understand them and it’s out to get you and judge you because you look a little different – NEW FUCKING FLASH: IT’S NOT. If you live in suburbia, and your parents don’t beat you, and you haven’t been raped, and you eat a couple of meals a day, and you haven’t gone through any sort of real emotional problems… then either get help, because you are depressed and that is legitimate, or STOP FUCKING OVER-DRAMATIZING and get on with your little “u r kewl” life. And even if you still think I’m a bitch, and you still think you’re in hell, that’s fine… but please don’t just say that, because I’m not going to bother reading if I already know where it ends up, and yes, I’m going to remain skeptical. If you’re really in hell, just fucking show me. Talk to me about it.

Alright, I’m done. (for now)

eek