"Cold & Ugly" 2002-07-10 - 6:01 p.m.

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I'm not in control of my actions anymore. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know who I am. I don't know how I got here, and I don't know where here is. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is real. I want to stop being depressed, but then I do things to make myself depressed. I won't ask anyone for forgiveness. Wait, the only person who has something to forgive me for is Stephanie. I don't know anything. I only know she knows more about it than I do. She wrote me a note today, and except for the part about it being easy for me to forget and move on, truer words were never typed. Fuck. Stephanie, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing. I leave the choice up to you. If you want to try and work this out, if you still want to be friends with me, e-mail me. If not, there's nothing I can do. I'm so very scared. Stephanie, you are so right. But you know why I run Stephanie? You want to know why I run from myself, why I change constantly? Because if I stand still, myself will catch up, and when I catch myself, there's nothing there. When I get caught by myself, I see who I am: nothing. I try to be myself, but there is no 'self' there. I'm so very empty inside. So Stephanie, if you come at me with a knife in public, I'll stand still for you. Stephanie, I really believe I've finally caught myself. I really believe myself finally caught up to me. And now here I am: nothing, noone. I've been listening to The End by the Doors almost constantly since I wrote last night's entry. That song is me. In the absense of self I've insterted a song. The eerieness of it is me. The End it speaks of is where I'm at. I'm dead now, as I type this. Sure, a doctor would say I'm alive, but I'm hollow, I'm not real. It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything. Well everything is lost. This is the end, my only friend: the end. If anyone wants to take the time to care about me, Stephanie, if you care enough to be friends with me, if I matter to anyone who reads this, my e-mail is: [email protected]. I am nothing. I have nothing. There is nothing. I'm so very empty and scared. I have no control over anything, anything at all. I am here, wherever that is. I'd kill myself if I thought it would make a difference. But it wouldn't, except to the doctors, who right now can register a pulse, but wouldn't be able to if I commited suicide. Some people may think I'm sad as I right this, depressed again. The truth is I feel nothing. I am truly empty inside. I have as much interest in the way things are right now as I do in professional sports. If someone wants to fill me, my e-mail is above. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not, simply because I do not feel. I am dead inside. And no one will be attending the funeral.

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