You know that feeling when you want to blog but your mind is empty and you don't know what to write about? Yet that feeling of missing one's blog space lingers; that feeling of wanting to pour something down because your blog is the perfect place to be a little personal but still stay discreet and secretive? This is that kind of post.

These past few days are spent on getting angry, crying myself to sleep and wanting to yell at everyone and the world. I’m tired and I’ve bled dry. I’m losing myself, painfully. I want to die, or so I keep telling myself. I hate everyone who tells me pretty things. I’m tired of people telling me that I mean something, that I’m more than just another byproduct inhabiting this wreckage of a planet. I’m not in the mood to listen to any of those, neither do I want a hug. I don’t think I want a hug. I don’t need hugs. I just want to be alone in silence. And I think the people who constantly forbid me to take my own life just don’t feel like attending my funeral. I guess this is what depression does to your head. It fucking stings.

I don’t really talk about my family on this blog. I rant about them vaguely on twitter because I could never contain my anger. It’s like a metaphorical explosive diarrhea that I cannot contain. I suspect intermittent explosive disorder but you know, I wouldn’t want to do that because I’m just not in the mood to be invalidated by some internet social warriors. It’s funny, I used to think I wanted to be a psychologist. No honey, you cannot be a psychologist if you’re insane yourself. There are screams inside my head and I can’t stop them. I let out another sob, I grip the hem of my shirt and I cry. Oh wait, that’s just a fantasy inside my head. The truth is, I’m typing things down with a poker face as I try to survive for another day in the office (oh no, work is alright; I’m surviving just fine) Damn it where was I before I went off track? Right, my family. They pretty much suck and I’m not saying that because I’m spoiled. I’m saying that because I’m being manipulated. It’s not a brand new story, move along now.

The stress is so much that I think I want to barf every now and then. Or maybe it’s just the ulcer. It’s the ulcer, my dear, don’t be such a drama queen. I tried taking generic drug for it only to end up feeling nauseous afterwards. Once or twice I just curled up on my bed feeling like maybe I could, you know, ask the ulcer to actually kill me get me a day off work. It never did so that’s a bummer.  I guess if my life were a movie, I'd probably be a background character at The End of The Fucking World holding a mop in a dark, sad diner Alyssa and James stumbled upon accidentally. I wouldn't be the guy who James threatened at the gas station because I'd dead silent like a corpse, minding my own business. Then I'll head home feeling like nothing but a total crap with so much plans for her future yet no money to achieve any of them. If you watch a movie about me, I think you're going to die from boredom. This is so depressing, isn't it? I know. I'll stop talking.

On the other hand, I finished reading Nova Ren Suma's The Walls Around Us after months of holding onto it. It's a tough love kind of book, with really confusing writing style and excessive rambles of metaphor. Maybe I'll write a dedicated review, maybe I won't. For now, I think I'll try to read more books and find my old self back so I can blog properly.

To quote Arnold Schwarzenegger from The Terminator, "I'll be back."