I can no longer go ten minutes without drifting into thoughts of physical violence and emotional cruelty. I want to believe that I just need these thoughts brutalized out of me once or twice, because I don’t want to admit that I managed to break myself with a heavy diet of masochism at age 20. Can I ever be the kind of girl someone could love?

Of course you can, dummy.

I try not to blatantly lie to you silly bitches; I mean, I lie to you a *lot*, but I’m damned sure winking at you and sending up signal flares to make certain you notice me do it. So I’m not going to bullshit you now with stories about how everyone can have a happy ending, all the pieces eventually fit together, and love conquers all. Because they can’t, they don’t, and it never will.

With that said, shit can usually get *better*. You may end up stuck in a Zeno’s paradox where you always feel like you’re halfway to ”good enough”, but even barely perceptible movement is getting you somewhere. Yeah, you’re prettier and more interesting as a sick little pervert, but face it, life is set to a lower difficulty level when you’re normal. If you ask me, you should keep trying until you feel like you can’t go another step, until there’s nothing left but tears and a frustration that claws at you from the underbrush of shame.

And if you finally reach that point?

Hey, you know where to find me.