Thursday, January 15th, 2001 | 00:47
Things that stick with you

I should be so fucking happy, but I'm not. I am well aware that I have absolutely NO right to feel the way I do, as EVERYTHING (aside from my physical health) is going my way. However, there is still an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy that seems to have surrounded me like a London fog. I've never been to London. I wouldn't mind going either.

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Last night I dreamt of a man who stole people's children and brainwashed them into thinking they were his own. He looked the way my subconscious pictures a pedophile. He had white hair and a white moustache. He wore a knee-length multi-coloured wool coat and always kept his hands in the pockets. He stole my two year old son, as well as two other children from families in the community. I remember chasing him through parking lots and down alleys and side streets. Eventually, he got into a car (though it might have been a train) and sped away with three little children. A few years later, while walking down the street with my wife and two other children, I noticed him going the other way with his stolen family. He looked a little different, but it was obviously him. I also recognised my son, though he seemed twice as old as he should have been. I think I got into an argument about who was the real father to the three children. I'm not sure how it ended.

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Please tell me what the hell that means.

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Obviously confusing.

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I can't figure out how to start this sentence. It's really bugging me so you get the story instead. I was in math class and thinking about junior high (I never called it junior high, but it's easier this way.) and more specifically, math classes. The math teacher was a 45 year old mullet-wearing Quebecois. Fuck the details. I would stay in his class at lunch to finish work or tutor or just so that I wouldn't have to go outside and deal with all the people that I despised so much. I remember one day I had an Exacto (?) knife that I brought from home in my bag because all the shop tools (scissors, basically) were dull and I needed something to cut balsa wood. I was feeling particularly bitter towards the world (I was 13) and decided to see how hard I could push down without breaking the skin. I remember making all sorts of interesting patterns all the way up my right arm, all the while without any blood.

I find it interesting that whenever I do (try to) hurt myself, it's always on my right arm, and never the left. I'm right-handed. I don't get it.

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My best friend during that time always had huge scars and cuts going up both arms. He told me his cat scratched him. I was na�ve enough to believe him. He emailed me about a month ago but I never sent anything back. I should have.

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I look in the mirror and wonder what people used to see. I want to know what they see now.

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She's so beautiful. I don't even compare.

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I feel guilty about not being better. I feel guilty about not being smarter. I feel guilty about not being more creative or better looking or more stable.

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I have been so close to crying for the last hour and a bit. I want to do something to get it over with, but I know I can't. Pain doesn't make me cry. Good movies make me cry. Crying makes me cry.

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Looking back, I don't cry by myself. I cry in public.

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Hate me.

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I should have written this on paper.

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notebook

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