Wrapped In Plastic (Part 2)

Fuck me.

I'm so glad to have three days off from 1940s -
not cause of the show - that actually went really well today.

I just need to be...away...from everybody for a bit.

Everything tastes like ashes to me. And that's nobody else's fault.

Just my own.

This isn't where I expected (wanted) to be right now.
Like a fucking ghost.
Like an idiot.

It's all my fault at the end of the day.
I can't create anything but this pointless meaningless heavy feeling in my chest.
I'm a failure at everything else I come into contact with.
Fucking idiot.
Your fault, your bullshit.

What the fuck has happened to me this past year.....who the fuck am I?
A fucking liar, especially to myself....

A liar.
A loathsome fucking mess.
Asshole. Cocksucker. Bastard. Fuck.

Waste. Trash. Liar. Idiot.

Empty fucking black hole cry baby fucking monster.

An ass. A fool. A fucking waste of space, a waste of skin.

I feel like this isn't even my life, like I've been knocked into some hellish fucking dimension next door.

How the fuck do I get back to where I should be?

All the doors are locked and the game is rigged.

I'm not suppose to be here.
This isn't what I want.
This isn't working.
This is wrong.
This is doomed.
This is a waste.

Exposed as the simpering fucking little monster you are, you fuck.

Wow, usually this kind of tearing myself down has it's own pleasant side effects -- but tonight...I just feel numb to it.

Dead.