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1 Merdre 131 (May 18, 2003) - 7:19 p.m. Pity partyI am now about to alienate everyone who's still reading this diaryland. (Yes, all three of them, especially the one with the migraines.) The way I will do this is very simple: I am going to say exactly what's on my mind. Every time I have decided to say the first thing that came to my mind, it has been a mistake. Every time I have stopped myself from saying the first thing that came to my mind and said something else instead, that has turned out to be a mistake, and the first thing I thought of would have been the right thing to say. I can't say the right thing, I can't do the right thing, I can't even think the right thing. In short, I can't be the right thing. I am a complete and utter waste of skin and space. Every breath I take is a literal physical theft of oxygen from people who actually deserve air. The only reason I don't commit suicide is because I would have to decide to do it, and given that (by mathematical definition of me, as I've just demonstrated) any decision I take is bound to be the wrong decision, or at the very least should be assumed to be the wrong decision absent completely compelling evidence to the contrary... Actually, my real problem is that I am simply not allowed to be anything less than perfect. Any mistake on my part proves that mistakes are all I am capable of. I can never be free of my mistakes as long as evidence of them remains in the space-time continuum, and since they can't be corrected the only way that would count (retroactively), there's no point trying to get it right. If this sounds familiar, it's because I go through it a lot. Like, every time I'm reminded that I'm not in fact already perfect, or indeed just that I'm not who I thought, in my younger days, that I'd be when I reached this age. Having bored you for long enough with my self-pity, I'll go, and hope to be cheered up by the next time I post. Get it out of your head and into the machines.
last time, on The Slack Shack - our next inciting exstallment 
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