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I'm so disappointed in the whole thing, I want to scream or so something drastic. What? I don't know. I don't know nothing.
I've even thinking of this guy I worked with on set of this movie. I wasn't sure if he liked me, but he had a hold over me. I hope he's taken or not interested because I can't take this.
Watch, tonight I'll go wax my bikini hair.
I want to write more inspiring entries, more positive ones, but all I do is dump my toxic emotions here. That's what I think of journals and diaries. All the paper ones I have and the other online diary has my emotional toxins dumped in there. I can't read them back, for they're sickening to read and all that I didn't want in me, seeps back in with the act of simply reading the same entry. It's like chewing my cud or something. I want to feel safe to love someone but I never do. It always feels scary and dangerous; it's a high-wire act for me, it's a death-defying stunt for me.
For some odd reason, I could go for a Henry Rollins poetry book right now. He doesn't write about flowers and clouds and nature, but about emotional pain and angst. It felt good one time I borrowed his stuff from the library and I connected with it.
Why do I do this to myself?
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