Below are the most recent 2 friends' journal entries.

Monday, December 28th, 2009
___unpleasant	2:01a	I wish I could speak intelligently. I feel like, when I talk, the things in my head can't be vocalized. Yet, when I listen to people talk, I can firmly grasp their ideas, even the ones that are seemingly ungraspable. I can write pretty fluently, at least I think so. When I am thinking to myself, the ideas I want to portray are all in line, yet the vocalization is nearly impossible. I don't know if it's, like, a fear of public speaking, or maybe some sort of delusional paranoia. I am very paranoid about the way my ideas are vocalized in public situations, because I think that the things I am talking about make me seem stupid. That everyone I talk to hears what I am saying, and since I can't say it the way it is said in my head, it sounds dumb. Unintelligent. Simple. But as much as I am intrigued by seemingly intelligent speech, nearly incomprehensible thoughts, I find beauty in the simplicity of vocalization of ideas. Yet, I cannot see beauty in the simplicity of my own speech. It could be argued that abstract thought, in itself, is mind boggling, and that I am intelligent on that level alone, but I cannot accept the thought that others may find the way I talk to be stupid, or simple, in a way that is not beautiful, but pitiful. I think that my level of paranoia is rising drastically, and I find myself questioning the motives of the people around me. Maybe not their motives, but... their honesty. I feel like the people I know, the people who are around me, are all liars. Every one of them is hiding their true thoughts about me, about the situations that we are a part of, about life, the world. Writing that out, and reading it, I can see how vain that really sounds. Which calls into consideration my own self esteem. Am I inflating my ego by thinking that others are scared to show their true thoughts to me, or am I deflating it by thinking that nearly everyone around me is a liar? Then, reading this whole thing, I think to myself, 'Look at how well you can write your thoughts out.' Yet, saying this aloud would come out only as the first line, I wish I could speak intelligently. (Comment on this)
Saturday, December 26th, 2009
___unpleasant	2:31a	I kinda feel like this right now. If there was a god, I'm sure he would be hated For making bugs, this hell that was created. Sit on a curb, put on a hat, I am infested, it happens just like that. I'm sure I hate 'em, there ain't no maybes bodylice and crabs, headlice and scabies. You take your pick it makes me sick while I scratch until I bleed, soon there'll be scabs for me to pick. It drives me mad as I scratch my body raw Sometimes it feels like sex when I'm scratching with my paws. Sometimes it feels better when it gets wetter, lubed up with pus and blood, but later I'm upsetter. 'Cause of the pain, well, the rash becomes inflamed. I simply lost control, the scabies can't be blamed. Oh! Yes, they can! I'll go complain to the drop-in-center clinic, 'Hook me up with some Lindane!' Oh, yes! Lindane! The stuff for the occasion this lotion gives you cancer with too many applications. But, I must use it! I'll be the tested, this time, it's gone too far, my body is infested. One bugs, two bugs, three bugs, four! These bugs just fuck and eat soon there'll be hundreds more to infest my head, infest my bed, these bugs won't stop infesting 'till I kill 'em all dead! And then, there's eggs! They'll fucking catch, if I don't delouse again in seven days, they'll hatch! And at this time, I will truly go insane my nervous system shot by the use of the lindane. It is this lotion, on my generation, tested. This time, it's gone too far... my body is infested. (3 Comments |Comment on this)