It's 2:30am and still technically Sunday. I've just eaten a plate of incense ash, and I really don't know why. It tasted nice though. Crumbly like Viennese biscuits in M&S; sorta waxy, lipstick-like, but salty. I would say like tears, but that's incredibly cliche, with that diagonal thing along the top.

God fucking damn it. I want to cry. I don't have a reason. I just do. And I can't. It's like a fucking lump caught in my chest that won't come up. I feel so full of love and hatred, and it's so undirected and raw and I just want to let it all go. I don't even have a reason for those two emotions either. God, I want a Panadol. Why am I such a drama queen? Why do I have such a fucking big need for attention? Fucking wanker. I don't want to lie anymore. I wish I could crack myself open like a peanut, all the way along the ribs, and show everyone my lies. I'm trying to be honest now, I am. I've stopped lying. I'm lying already.

I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing. Why am I awake at 2:30 in the morning? I feel so stupid. I feel I feel I feel! FUCK IT. Don't I have other vocabulary, or did that shrivel away with my IQ? I can't live, I'm a waste. I'm so worthless, I do nothing, I'm an eyesore, a fortunate car crash. I don't have the right to be like this-- I'm not sick, I'm not, I'm a wannabe, that's what I am. I've found myself, wannabe, wannabe Rachel. I want to be sick. I want to be ill, so I have an excuse, I can be me, I can be bitchy and snarky and get away with it. I'm not sick, my excuse is lame. I have to stop doing this! I have to stop pulling other people into my messes. They're mine. Don't talk to anyone about them, don't, they won't understand, you don't understand, you don't know you, how can you talk about yourself? You feel self-conscious and want to hit yourself soon as you open your big trap. You can't talk. Paralyze yourself. Shut up, bigmouth. Chatterbox, airhead... God, I'm so stupid. I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore nowadays. I want to be deep, I want to talk about subjects that are controversial, I want to argue, I want to reassure myself that I am smart because I always feel smart after a debate. I wish I were something... I wish I'd stop crying, I'm so fucking fake, I fake myself. I tell myself I'm sad and I believe it.

Okay. Wait. I haven't lost me. I'll find me. I'm... paranoid. Very slightly. I don't like open doors in the house, I don't like parents looking at my stuff for fear they'll find out something I don't even know of. I lack ambition-- my life is aimless. I like art and I like reading. I like Biology, though not as a life-long thing. I am superficial, airheaded. I am thoroughly self-centered, but want to give. I try listen to others, but I wave them away when I'm in a rush. In the mornings I am an utter bitch when I have homework. I am selfish and greedy. I'm highly envious. I like attention and will do anything to get some. I have crazed episodes in which I feel like I'm flying and detached, and I get sad because I wish I wasn't born, and the only way to remedy that is death, which I don't want because I care. I care for my family, even though it's only held together with sellotape. I don't want them to ache after me. I don't feel like they're my family. I know them; I call them mom and dad, and I love them, but nothing else. They're not my friends. They're mandatory, and I hate myself for thinking that but it's true. I'm lucky I have parents. I'm selfish, I take them for granted. I feel distant from them, my family, my brother, everything. When I'm with them or my friends I know who they are and who I am doesn't matter. When I'm alone... I forget who they are. Debbie, Willbe, Dallas, whoever, I know they're real and I know their names but I can't remember their faces. I float far enough and they don't seem real anymore, and I made them up. I feel so terrible, and I post up some self-pitying shit on my SN and lo and behold, someone IMs me and my mood goes. Some of the time. It doesn't matter what they say to me; a simple "Yo" has the power to make me feel happy. Because I'm no longer alone, I'm linked.

I hate this. It's so plastic. I'm not having an identity crisis; I'm not. I'm fine. Leave me be. I'm very happy; my mind thinks it's sad.

God, I feel stoned. What I would't give to creep out of my house right now and dance a little barefoot on the pebbles outside.

Goodnight.