Today goes down in the histories of Uncoolness. Ever.
I should write an Essay.
But I won't. Because it's futile. FUCK.
Often, I have fantasies of disease. My own disease. Cancer, tumors, usually, sometimes car accidents with horrendous broken limbs, but usually not because I'm uncreative and a sissy. I irrationally feel that Something Wrong from the inside out hurts less than from the outside in. I'm horribly afraid of knives and broken bones and my teeth going through my lip or a rod going through my eye, but I look on leukemia as a welcome visitor completely devoid of pain or danger.
It all stems from my desire for love, physical contact, and continued concern/affection for my well-being. And desire for immediacy and meaning and motivation. If I'm threatened with a fatal disease...Not, I'm not Ignored, I don't feel Unloved. But you know that special hurried vital concern people pay you when they think you might die. You know. And you know that's got to be a fucking good feeling and I want it. When someone is more concerned with your life than their own. That's nice.
I just want to come into school for a prolonged period of time, my hair getting thinner and thinner, my voice getting weaker and weaker, smile my sad, dying smile, and have everyone, even people I don't know, come up to me all the fucking time and make sure I'm okay and give me tissues when I cry because I'm going to die. And then not go to school because I'm having surgery and have people visit my room and cry privately and hear whispers about my impending doom and everyone would listen to what I have to say because dying people say the most profound things and ain't that just the godawful truth.
And I'm not ashamed of wanting that, it's horrible, it's horrible, but if I were dying I wouldn't be so fucking concerned with meaningless bullshit and I hate people but ohyes
I would be ravenously, indiscriminately loved.