As hard as it may seem, from a farther look, I think I’ve gotten used to this.

My ass looks so much bigger in this dress. Damn it, I’m never going to wear this thing again.

How much more hopelessness can a fucking day fucking swallow?

I can’t believe it’s the third day I haven’t smoked. In a fucking row.

I am trying to be grateful of everything I have. In fact, I’ve just started seeing that I don’t own anything I have. It just, sort of, dropped next to me, and sticks here discreetly, sometimes so silently that I forget about it all. It sticks here, for now.

Shit, I still haven’t managed to put those clothes in the washing machine. And even if I do, I’ll probably run out of knickers until I get to turn the damn thing on.

I can’t keep coming home at 10 PM. I just fucking can’t.

The freshly spit snow under the windowpane looks strikingly alike with the cream I’ve had with my coffee the other day. I should write something about it. No, that’s stupid. I was gonna say ‘rubbish’, but that sounds even more stupid.

Fuck, I’ve got 5 choked closets and still nothing to wear but tired rags. I hate my fucking life. And my textured ass.

I’m late to work, again, and I haven’t even overslept. I look older by the day, and crazier by the hour.

Oh look, I haven’t posted anything on the fucking blog for 3 weeks already. Nevermind, tomorrow’s another day. Another one which passes without me doing anything about anything, that is.

I can’t believe it’s the third day I haven’t drunk any fucking thing. In a fucking row.

This place is a mess.

All these people think I’m pretty calm, pretty loose and polite, too. Let them not be shocked to learn otherwise.

I get more and more hurt by seeing too many people every day. By their lack of everything. If I ever were one of them, I’d run out of things to believe in. But I’m afraid they might have thought the same at one point.

Oh no, I’m going to cry. Stop, please stop. Don’t fucking do this to me, will you?! Quick, quick, off to the bathroom!

Some things never end. Like, for instance, dirty dishes.

If I’m eating this, I might not be looking forward to waking up tomorrow or anytime at all, in fact.

I can’t believe my fucking parents fight with me at night now. If I closed the door, they’ve jumped through the window. If I close the window, they’ll break the walls. For all I know, they’d blow up the whole thing, myself included, just to make sure that I will always hear the voice of hell inside my head.

I’m falling into pieces. The next thing you know, I’ll be pinching my arm and picking a small piece of flesh.

What a bright day this really is!

They’ve put this special mother-and-child control button in trams. It doesn’t work.

Believing doesn’t always work well either.

I feel useless and I can’t say a word about it.

How much did that crap cost again?

Life would be so much better with new heels on.

Nowadays, people have to pay people to listen to them.

I always feel like talking. But never because I want to say much. Because when I do, I’d rather not say it to anyone.

All this talk.

It never
really
stops.