And suddenly...

I remembered the password.

This house is condemned.

The story continues here.

Sorry, but you are looking for something that isn't here.

I am a world champion hater and at the moment I hate so much that it twists my gut and steals my appetite. As proof of a lack of a better me I hate you so much I've been wishing you dead. Harsh. I'm an honest bitch and I shouldn't say these things. Sometimes, however, I have to let it out so as not to destroy myself. Ironically, letting it out undoubtedly destroys me in the eyes of others. Where to go when you're down? You go nowhere, honey, 'cause there's just nowhere to go and then oh one one day you drag yourself up. Or over. Or just plain out.

There's more than one out.

And the day comes when you can't stand the curtains anymore and you throw them away. You change the look and the feel and you fucking well move on.

I can't be here any longer. I can't be the caricatured character of a sliver of my self. I can't be your nicknames for me. I can't be the person I was. I can't even be the person I wasn't who, in the end, simply wasn't good enough. Most important, for the moment, is that I can't be this anymore.

Once I could have cut you in an uncomplicated mental ritual. Obliterated you from my life and purged the memories. To tell truth I've done some of that but I can't bring myself back to the drama of the past. I can't do it anymore. Let it fade away; it will soon enough. Let it fade and me with it.

As I've heard so many times - I'll see you on the flipside.

Enough.

I've been thinking, four and a half years is more than enough of this.

Dear Internet,

It's not me, it's you.

I find that I cannot be around you any more. I do not want to see you. In fact, you bring me down in rather a massive way and I think it best that we avoid each other for a while. Obviously, we'll be friends again someday - such is your ever present way. For now though, I need to get away from you.

I need space and time to redraw my imaginative boundaries. I need to take my mind out and away and wash it down. I need to take a scalpel and remove the rot and there sure is a lot of rot. I need to cauterise the wounds. Words, you know, more wounding than other people's happiness.

Maybe I'll come back cleaned out and painted up. Maybe I'll come back better. Maybe I'll come back to a different you. By then, I suppose, you will be different after all. Ever-changing happy to my stagnant un. Maybe that'll change too.

I'd like not to come back at all. To make a break and make it final. I find it easier and often better to burn bridges. If nothing else they make a lovely blaze. I think, however, I shall be back. My judgement is out on this one. Out of the room, out of the state, out of my mind.

Again, I have left on a melancholy note. I'm good at that. That and making a problem of myself. I am a problem, aren't I? Best not to let me forget that.

Never-lovin' yours,

Nails

So...

...what is it you're looking for?

Stupid.Stupid.Stupid.

I don't know why I keep a box filled with notes and ideas and page upon page of writing when I'm not a fucking writer. When I'm talentless. What's the point? Why bother?