Starbucks Doubleshot Energy+Coffee- Mocha

That's what I'm running on now. That and that alone. I think food is the only thing that's suspending me anymore.

I wonder what the hell I run on when that goes.

I'm bent over backwards so badly I'm ready to fucking break. Hell- I'm ready to break myself if someone or somebody else doesn't.

I don't know what's going on in my head. It's like I'm living ninth grade all over again. "Jennifer" is slowly showing her face again. On the one hand, I care about my life, my dreams, my goals, my aspirations. On the other... nothing. None of it means shit. On the off chance that I succeeded, it wouldn't matter.

You're damn right I don't want to eat. Screw not admitting it anymore. I had hoped, prayed, you were wrong. Maybe, for once, you were wrong about me. But you weren't, of course. 89 lbs is fucking perfect.

I feel like cutting, for the weirdest reason. I feel like maybe I can make up my mind then. Maybe I can figure out what I want. Because I don't know anymore. I guess I think that either I'll figure out I really don't give a damn, and cut to the bone, or I'll see that I really do care, and be able to stop... everything.

I wouldn't even mind hating myself, because then at least I'd know how I felt. Right now I don't know shit. I hate myself for the same reasons I love myself, and vice versa. All the things that give me worth, somebody else has. So what the fuck is the big deal about me?

I swear I can feel this void in my chest. Or, not a void, but a box. And it's one I buried a long time ago. But you dug it up again. I don't know who you are, but you did. And it's so screwed up, because, I swear, I put my heart in it at one time. But something happened, a long time before now. And now that box is empty, and I know it. I feel that emptiness. But I keep acting like, if I don't open the box, then it still might be there. Maybe I'm just tricking myself. Maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe there is no box, and my heart is where it's supposed to be.

I want to hurt again. Because I want to feel. And I'm afraid if I feel anything good, it's a dream. I'm asleep, and any minute that annoying tone will buzz, and I'll wake up. And it will all disappear with the morning dew.

But pain is real: it leaves scars on the body, an impression on the mind, and burns on the soul. It will cut open a vein which will bleed itself until it's dry. And you know it was there. Pain is too exquisite to ignore. It sticks with you, and if you want, you can hold onto it as long as you desire. Pleasure is wont to wax and wane as it will, in spite of your attempts to keep it in your grasp. But pain will be your companion as long as you let it.

I never felt alone when I had pain, and I always knew it would come back. Pleasure refuses to afford me that luxury. But pain was ever constant, waiting in the background, around the corner. Ever patient with her strangling embrace.

God, what am I doing? Where did I go? I thought I was past all of this. I thought I had made progress.

I loathe my weakness: that I can't make up my mind one way or another. That I try without hope of success, that I give up with my dreams in my mind. I'm such a hypocrite. I want, but don't desire, I desire, but I don't want.

Earlier on my way home, I had hoped I would die in a car crash. It was right after the shift change, so Michael's father responded to the call, and I was pulled out with blood dripping from my ear and mouth. Rushed me to surgery, and the ICU. But it was too late. And that made me wonder...

Is there a possibility that it might really be too late?