vanity is so confusing.

Maybe people will believe the lie.
I wish I believed it.
Maybe I do.
Sorry.
Why the fuck does it matter?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
                                 Never.

vain. vein. vane.
weather vanes. Let's go east. I miss the sun. I love the grey.
Chalkboards and veins. My two least favorite things. 
"Like sewing together two pieces of wet cheese." Thanks.


I count my steps a lot and usually don't realize I am doing it until I am already up to 50 or so.


Perhaps I should go beg for attention elsewhere.

                                                                 

"No, not really. It's more a need for sympathy. I want people to feel sorry for me. I like to feel the burn of the audience's eyes on me when I'm revealing all my darkest secrets into the microphone. When I was a kid I used to carry a safety pin around with me every where I went in my pocket, and when people weren't paying enough attention to me, I'd dig it into my arm until I started crying. Everyone would stop what they were doing and ask me what was the matter. I guess, I guess I kind of liked that."

"Really, you're telling me that you're doing all of this for attention?"


"No, I hate it when people look at me; I get nauseous. In fact, I could care less what people think about me. Do you feel that?"