Llevo la cuenta de los días que llevo sin comer, así como los días que llevas sin hablarme. Llevo la cuenta de cuantos días sobrevivo sin cortarme y los exhibo como trofeos, como difíciles pruebas de valentía superadas. Es un mundo loco, un mundo salvaje, un mundo fantasma. Veo al amigo imaginario de Donnie Darko, Frank, oculto en la oscuridad, siento pánico y vomito. Camino por el pasillo y siento aquella común alucinación de sentirse observado, de una presencia desconocida que camina a tu lado. Me masturbo y se siente bien, luego me enferma y me corto las venas. Soy una feminista enojada y siento que es un buen día para golpear a cualquier persona misoginia. No puedo respirar, me ahogo. Lo encuentro algo divertido, lo encuentro algo triste, que los sueños en los cuales estoy muriendo son los mejores que he tenido.

The sunrises have been beautiful. I feel unsatisfied but I want to live. I guess. I forgot I was wearing eyeliner so now I look like I raccoon. If you close your eyes, you see darkness, but if you keep them closed for long enough and concentrate hard, you'll see light. Sometimes I want to fly, and just like fly far, far away until I hit the crystal of the dome. Because that's when it ends and if I'm lucky, I'll see through the glass, die and go somewhere better.
I miss you, I'm not gonna crack.
I feel like I lack joy, everything's boring and I fear the night, when another day is bred. I'm so ugly, it makes me sick, I'm worried of people around me dying because it means I have to go with them. Oh my god, the lack of love hit me so hard I feel like I'll throw up my loins. My lungs look dark, like the wings of Satan.  I feel lost and I'm too lazy to pray. You have no idea how much it hurts how a part of my soul, my happiness, my hope of finding any fucking thing that can make me believe life's worth living, dies every motherfucking day when I'm just like "oh it's 4 am and I stayed up all night waiting for you because fuck everything I need to see you" and day after day I can feel like I fucking asshole and cut myself in the bathroom and then puke so I can be skinny and you can love me. I fucking hate this shit, it makes me fucking sick. My ovaries and brain chemicals are driving me crazy.

I haven't eaten in 6 days. Okay I may e exaggerating a little bit, I did eat but in all these days all I've eaten is like 2 or 3 eggs, a piece of cake, juice, coffee candies and coke. But that's all I've eaten. And I'm not even hungry. This is making me feel bad, it makes me feel have to smoke often to control the hunger. But I need to stop eating. The less food, the better. I thought about eating 400 calories in pasta, which is quite a lot, only because I miss eating. But I did not and I will not eat it. Maybe if I starve myself for enough time he will love me. I wonder how long I'll have to wait to feel real, powerful, deep hunger. I wonder if I can stop eating until they take me to the hospital. Because when things get bad, the best thing you can do is to stop eating until they take you to the hospital, to amuse yourself, to think about something else, so you can get people being nice to you because you're dying. Nobody cares unless you're pretty or dying.

In my dream I was this sort of weirdo who liked to take the corpses of animals because they made me feel like somebody loved me. Then I was in a lab and they had plenty of eyes, human eyes, in boxes. I was trying to steal the eyes. But I got caught and I went to "hell". It was my room but made mostly of clouds, there was like an angel or something sitting behind a desk. I was with 3 people and I know I knew who they were but I can not remember them. However we were meant to do something really stupid, pull from a rope and that would make some small balls or something like that, that were tied to the rope, explode. The angel would press a button and that would make the things explode, give us a shot and make us go to heaven. The first person, a girl, got the shot and that's when the angel told us that pressing the button would give us a shot. There was not syringe, we would get the shot like magically. So when I heard they called my name I freaked out, okay? I just started to cry a lot, and all I had to do was to pull the rope. But the shot, the idea of the shot, even without a syringe, made me freak out. I could not stop crying. So a guy who was there, the other person, said "I'll go first". He was about to do it when I heard the voice of my grandma from downstairs telling my grandpa to put a plate, that was on the table, in the kitchen. But when I woke up I was half asleep, for a second, and I thought "i won't go" because I thought my grandma was talking about bringing the rope and the shot to my room, to reality so I could go to heaven. I woke up only with one idea, when I was wide awake, "I am not a necrophiliac, I don't steal people's eyes from labs and I'm a good girl". For hell, it wasn't scary or anything.

I watched Wreck-It Ralph last night. I'm so in love with that movie right now, I just love it so much. However, this morning, when I went to bed, I had a dream. I was in this cute house with my parents and we were going to like move there. I went to the backyard and there were some bugs there, the bugs from Hero's Duty, the game in Wreck-It Ralph. They started to follow me and so I was trying to run away from that place. But a big bug pulled my hair and made me fall. Then a bigger bug got into my hair and I was screaming, there was suddenly someone with me. I was crying and screaming for help and then I woke up. I never had a nightmare with bugs, but now I can tell why they make you cringe.

I've felt peace. A beautiful and amazing feeling. It was wonderful. For a second I wasn't me anymore. I was no one. I was nowhere. Everything was quiet and peaceful and my mind was empty except for one last though: "let yourself go". It was amazing, I never felt something like that before. It lasted about 1 second. The most beautiful second I've lived. I hope that's how death feels, because I didn't feel alive. So maybe that's how death feels. I hope so.

¿Did I say that dancing in an uterus is the most childish thing you could do?

Sí. Tenía razón. Estoy insatisfecha pero tengo ganas de vivir. Supongo.

an·he·do·ni·a
 n.

The absence of pleasure or the ability to experience it.

I masturbate, everything hurts, I cry and cum. This is my new way to lose my mind. And then everything is like a beautiful dream. And then I start to laugh like I just noticed something hilarious. Thank God we're okay!

Aloha from Hawaii, kisses from New York

I masturbated until my clit went numb. Then I got a headache. I can't count the number of orgasms. My belly started to hurt. I felt how my uterus contracted. How does it feel to have a piece of meat between your legs, inside of you? Can you feel its warmth? I can hear my own love buzz. By "love buzz" he knew I meant vibrator. You've found my porn stash! Oh, great, the perv is here again! And that sucks because my pussy still hurts. It takes me 10 minutes to smoke. Creating an habit takes ten weeks. I'm ugly and fat yet people still ask me to fuck them. "No, darling, don't suck my dick", they say; "I'll please you, because I'm a virgin".

Dear Boddah

I don't have a craving. I mean it doesn't really cause me anxiety or anything but it just would be so good to cut myself again. I'm doing okay though. This morning I was feeling bad. So I prayed my awkwardness away. It worked. God may be very merciful to me although I'm a little worthless bitch. I'm sorry for talking like this, Boddah. I miss you so much. I really do. You used to be happy. We used to be happy. Together. We would be together all the time and talk about pointless and childish stuff and we would watch TV together until I had to go to bed and you had to go back home. Don't you miss that? Don't you miss being happy? Don't you miss me? I miss you so much. We used to be together and it seemed like an endless fantasy when I was a kid. One year was an eternity and so my childhood seemed to be a long dream. Like my life. Please, please talk to me. I miss you. 

Last night I had a dream about showing my boobs. I was in my school. And then I went to my classroom and took off my shirt and there were like 2 guys there. Later when I noticed people were coming in so I put it on again. A guy came in and I said to another guy who saw my tits that I showed my boobs. The guy who came in said "I wanted to see them!". That's when I found out he was like in love with my tits and the whole time he wanted to see them. I must say he did, once. Last year. Later we were doing this exam thing and I was in a chair that was taller than my classmates' chairs. The teacher didn't give me the exam (I noticed how my best friend's table didn't have a sheet either) so I asked for one sheet and my chair started to fall. So I moved my chair next to my best friend's. I don't even know how it happened but then his hand was in my shirt, touching my boob. I was not wearing a bra. It felt very very real, and intense, more than how it feels in real life. I was like "what..." and he said "It's good to lose something". I'm sure he was talking about his virginity... virginity on touching boobs. However, I took his hand and made it touch me even more. And I loved it because it was my best friend touching me It would be pretty cool if it happened in real life. 

I like it I'm not gonna crack, I miss you I'm not gonna crack, I love you I'm not gonna crack, I killed you I'm not gonna crack. 

Love, me. 

Dear Boddah

Things are going okay. It's better now. I'm better now. It all started with a few days without cutting and when I noticed I spent days without it and then I was like "Okay, I've been doing it for a few days. I'll see how much I can last". It's like a little challenge with myself. Also I know that the more I last, the better it will feel doing it again next time. But I'm okay, I'm doing better. I feel so much better! It's amazing. Thank God! Oh darling, this is something so wonderful  but so strange. I still don't know how. But I think it is because I've been talking to her a lot. Don't know how it helps but it does. And that's very important. I've been in a numb dream for years, it's time to get away from all this shit. I don't think Hole is good for me. But I need that mental orgasm. It's what poisons us, Boddah. Then angst, the hate, we're bitter and we are surrounded by shit, and then we're just like thinking about how we're surrounded by shit all the time, which is two times the same shit. But it's okay, honey. I'm doing great. I may go to pick up L.C. this week and then come back with her so we can share two weeks of summer and have fun. I want to make some tie-dyes. I smile, everything could be like a beautiful movie, a pretty photo. Because I smile. And there's something about my smiles. They make me feel something. And when I smile I can feel something amazing. Beautiful, beautiful picture. Kurt is smiling. it's so beautiful, it amazes me. I think it's happiness. I want to believe it's happiness as much as I want to believe it isn't, because if it is then it means happiness isn't like a rainbow explosion of unicorns and pink puke. Maybe happiness is peace and satisfaction. Hakuna Matata could be happiness, but a meaningless life is something that puts me down. Nothing to worry about, so there is no goals. No satisfaction when you've worked hard and you get something for it. Nothing. Just beer out of a coconut and days lying under a tree by the pool. I want to do something, you know? Like for real. I want to try at least, even if it's scary. But I will be fine. I'm always fine.

"Cuando hacemos el amor a las tres de la mañana debes hacerlo con cariño. Puedo notar cuando no lo haces con cariño, porque todo queda reducido a un vacío sentimiento de frío placer. Cuando hablas en español, suenas exactamente a Michelle. Al hacer el amor en el mar, podemos simplemente hacerlo en una concentración de agua y semen de ballena y luego nadar en direcciones separadas con facilidad y así en una hora estaríamos en putos relativamente remotos del océano. Si quieres, podemos ir ambos en la misma dirección. Pero si no me lo dices supondré que quieres ir hacia oeste, a la costa de California, mientras que yo quiero ir al este, porque tengo que volver a mi apartamento atestado de gatos y vestidos en Nueva York. California suena cálido y casi molesto. No hay manera de que quiera ir contigo allí sólo porque nuestra gata se llama California. Aún así, puedes venir conmigo a Nueva York. Allí, por si no lo sabes, también grabamos películas pornográficas a diario y en cierta época del año también usamos gafas de sol fuera al salir de nuestras casas. Sí, te congelarás en invierno y en otoño. No, aquí más del 50% de las mujeres rubias no son aspirantes a actrices. Este sitio es menos como Instagram y más como Tumblr. Como planeta tierra hemos decidido utilizar a California como un chivo expiatorio para estos pecados de vanidad y pretenciosidad porque Hollywood ya le ha dejado el estigma de glamour excesivo.
Volviendo al tema: puedes mudarte conmigo o irte. Los gatos son míos, entonces se quedan conmigo. De hecho, todo me pertenece porque llegaste de la nada hace una semana, te acogí en mi casa y ahora nos amamos pero una vez recordada tu vida en el oeste ya no quedaba demasiado espacio para la semana que has vivido conmigo entre los treinta años de vida en California. Naciste allí, perdiste tu virginidad ahí, te casaste allí y luego enviudaste allí. Invadido por la pena, bebiste hasta despertar al otro lado del país. Dormías en el umbral de mi edificio oliendo a Vodka barato hecho un desastre. Te acogí, ¿no merezco por mi hospitalidad y cariño que me ames más que a tu pasado? Yo estoy aquí, ella ya no. El presente, Jim. Yo soy parte de ese puto presente".

"Bien. Has decidido largarte. En medio de la noche, mientras yo soñaba con nuestra vida juntos. Excelente manera de preservar tu honor. Por suerte, te has dejado tu billetera, que contenía alguna información personal de ti y de tu vida en California. Tu esposa era guapa. Seguramente en la escuela fue muy popular. Ahora pensemos en ti, el Jim que iba a la escuela pública y se saltaba días de clase para salir a meterse ácido en las afueras y luego tener sexo con esa bonita puta de Abigail. ¿Qué tenía de especial? Bien, que era guapa, popular y experta en cuanto a sexualidad. Su vagina debía ser como un rosado e inmenso agujero para mear y cagar. Pero lo más especial de todo radicaba en el hecho de que no debía estar follándote, pero lo hacía y eso significaba un maravilloso regalo, un misterioso milagro para alguien como tú. ¿Era porque te amaba? Tal vez. ¿Era porque podías conseguirle prácticamente cualquier droga gratis, porque tu pagarías por todo? Probablemente. Era una niña atrapada en el cuerpo de alguien extremadamente guapa, que tenía unas tetas inmensas, y que necesitaba emociones constantes. Luego, al recibir toda tu atención, Deep throat Abigail pasó a la historia. Se enamoró, se casó y luego se mató. Fue un simple error. Una noche en la que volvió a su propio origen, un flashback a lo que componía su esencia. Una sobredosis. Terminó bocabajo en la alfombra de la sala de estar con una jeringuilla al lado de su cuerpo. Debió ser una grata sorpresa para ti el saber que estaba embarazada. ¿Y cómo se todo esto? Es fácil. No se si recuerdes a cierta niña, una niña torpe con anteojos y frenillos, el cliché perfecto de la intocable. Esa, mi querido Jim, era mi hermana. Te amaba de forma enferma, luego se volvió loca y se suicidó y su obsesión pasó a ser mi pasatiempo. Yo sé todo porque siempre he estado allí. Por cierto, Abigail estaba muy acostumbrada a inyectarse heroína. Me pregunto porque ese día se inyecto una cantidad tan peligrosa de droga".

La hija de Michael Jackson, Paris Jackson, trató de suicidarse la semana pasada. 

"I wonder why tears are salty ?"

Ella es guapa, muy guapa. Es un año mayor que yo pero en las fotografías se ve mucho mayor. Recuerdo el día que estaban pasando en la televisión el funeral de Michael Jackson. La Toya Jackson, creo que era ella, estaba junto a Paris mientras ella daba unas últimas palabras sobre su padre y lloraba. Me sentí muy mal por ella y yo sólo tenía unos diez años. "Él era muy raro, ¿de verdad ella lo quería?", pregunté a mi madre. Ella dijo que sí, que pese a cualquier error que él hubiera cometido él seguía siendo su papá. En esos momentos yo estaba en Brasil. Estaba en el apartamento de una amiga de mi mamá cuando encendí la televisión y, en portugués, se anunciaba la muerte de Michael Jackson. Lo recordaba únicamente como el hombre que pasó de negro a ser blanco, que cantaba y se agarraba la entrepierna al bailar. Como al cantante de Thriller, la canción que el algún momento escuché en la escena de una parodia de alguna película o un programa de televisión para niños. Años después de la fiebre de Michael Jackson, el momento en el que todo el mundo hablaba de él todo el tiempo, me encontré por accidente con una fotografía de Paris Jackson. Era impresionante. Yo la recordaba como una niña en traje negro llorando en un funeral. Y ahora tenía mi edad, me di cuenta de lo bonitos que tiene los ojos y de lo guapa que es. Luego se cortó el cabello y ando por la calle con una camisa de Kurt Cobain. Está en una situación parecida a la de Frances Bean: tu padre se muere y hay una enorme cantidad de atención en ti por razones que no tienen demasiado sentido. La diferencia es que Frances no tenía ni cinco años. El día que murió su padre ella tenía puesta una chaqueta con un estampado de leopardo, aunque probablemente entendía que algo pasaba. Posiblemente no supiera qué, pero sí algo. Era esa mirada curiosa en sus ojos que tenía todo el tiempo cuando era una niña, magnificada aquel día en las fotografías. Como era una bebé la atención no se centraba en su reacción a la muerte de su padre, sino que se centraba en su madre lo cual, sumado con sus problemas personales, la hundió aún más en sí misma, y es bien sabido que los seres humanos estamos compuestos de agua, carne y basura. Paris, al contrario, era consciente de lo que pasaba. El cuerpo de su padre, los titulares en los noticiarios y periódicos, la atención póstuma en general. 

Tomó un cuchillo de cocina  y se cortó las venas meses después de subir una fotografía a Twitter de la liga de goma amarilla que llevaba por el día de la prevención del suicidio, el diez de septiembre. Sus cicatrices podrían lucir en algunas semanas como las de mi prima, que son como largas y gruesas rayas claras en su muñeca, unas cuatro o cinco, y exhiben puntos en los bordes, probablemente de los puntos que le dieron en el hospital para cerrar la herida. Me pregunto que se sentirá ver como tu muñeca escupe sangre y estar consciente de que puede no detenerse hasta que ya no eres consciente de la habitación a tu alrededor. 

El departamento de policía de L.A. dice que quería atención. Si quería atención, quería algo en especial. Hay gente que quiere atención general. Otros quieren atraer a cierto grupo de personas porque esa atención roza los límites del cariño. Tomando en cuenta la presión que la muerte le ha traído, probablemente lo último que quería era tener a un montón de gente y a los medios mirando su cadáver y juzgando sus acciones. 

Orgasms used to be a comfortable pain. Then they were a powerful warmth on my legs and arms and some tingling. Then it was love and this warm feeling on my legs but it's weird because when I remember it, suddenly it feel weird. Like a cold pain but it wasn't, it was warmth love on my body. It's amazing how my body can generate that sensation. For a while orgasms were dead to me, it was like they were just a small and not powerful at all feeling concentrated in my vagina and it wasn't a big deal, but every once in a while it was powerful and amazing. I miss that powerful thing. Now it's warm love, but sad lovely power was pretty cool.

Me pregunto si lo de Saturn Returns puede causar cambios tangibles en la vida de una persona. Es como un año en el que algo en ti cambia. Podría serlo.

I have some sick fantasies. I don't know who I am anymore. I mean I thought I had this very clear idea of myself and that it was pretty easy to explain, because I was a cliché. But right now I'm this weird mixture of clichés and I don't even know how much I am of a certain thing and then that other thing... It's just weird and hard to understand since I've been locked inside this character for so many years and now apparently I have to change it a little bit or a lot and I don't have time because I actually want something different and I know what I want but apparently I'm getting something that may be good but it's confusing.
I can not imagine myself in the real world, the adult world. It seems so strange, so cold. Like a comic book or a porno. Everything is extremely chaotic in this very organized scenery. The actors know what to do but they're all so different from each other and sometimes it's like there isn't a connection between them or between their actions and the situations so everything is pointless. It's weird because I see myself as this little child walking in the middle of a dark street with people, so many people. It's like they don't notice I am there but I am and there's something about me that makes me different, because I'm this girl with the dinosaur t-shirt and that look of "what am I doing here? I really don't know how I came here and I don't know why I'm staying here". There's a brick wall and people with gray suits. I'm 23 years old and I still look at the the homeless people and I do not understand it, I still think it is unfair and confusing and there isn't an explaination that makes me feel better about it. Then I'm at this weird motel with guys smoking weed and then it's the pornographic part of my existence that still seems weird because I can't understand it and it still seems like something that's away from the mind of a child like me. My tits move, my mouth sucks. My eyes look at the ceiling and I still don't understand it. I wake up later that night wondering what am I doing here.

Estoy enojada. Muy, muy enojada. Estuve leyendo sobre despersonalización y hablando con algunas personas sobre la reacción que yo tenía al drogarme. Sí, las drogas, por lo menos las alucinógenas lo cual me deja los opiáceos, me causan despersonalización temporal. Esto parece ponerse peor cada vez o quizás fue porque eran dos drogas con intensidades distintas. Pero lo importante es que tengo dos opciones: aventurarme con opiáceos y ver si me dan lo que necesito, lo que quiero, o puedo vivir una vida sobria. 

La respuesta podría ser bastante clara según mi estado de humor. 

Anoche tuve un sueño interesante. Estaba en una tienda. Una tienda atestada de cajas en forma de corazón. Rojas y rosadas, de cartón y de tela. Decenas de cajas en forma de corazón apiladas al rededor de la inusual tienda. Pedí  una a la dependienta, una caja rosa de tela. Y otra diferente, también de tela, pero blanca. Algunas venían adornadas con flores, otras con gemas plásticas, pero como es mi sueño he decidido que eran gemas reales, subvaloradas. Quería las dos, pero era como si me diera vergüenza comprar dos.
Ayer leí el comic de Ghost World, ahora estoy leyendo el de V de Vendetta. En la mañana leí  un libro que compré hace poco, "Nueva York", y es algo largo. Llevo menos de 200 páginas y son alrededor de 900. Mi pared está atestada de dibujos y mensajes por doquier. Es un precioso desastre. L.C. viene a visitarme la semana que entra. Al menos no voy a aburrirme. Fallé en 3 clases, pero está bien. Aún voy a obtener mi narguile, porque el dinero es mío, mi tatuaje, si no me asusto demasiado por la idea de la aguja inyectando tinta en mi piel, y un montón de maquillaje para intentar, y luego fallar, hacer el maquillaje de Effy.
Estoy mejorando, en serio. Él es una gran ayuda en realidad, aunque a veces no lo parezca. Es bueno.

You can't be perfect, can you?

I have 3 weeks, that's all my vacation by now. I figured this out, not without help, but I did it. I have to save myself. I need to save myself because apparently I'm too much of a selfish bitch to get help with someone else, with pills, with therapy, with love, and it's not only about being selfishly in love but about not having someone who wants to love me because we're just running away. Yeah, it's all so cute and pretty and perfect when you're in love and it all happens in your head but then when you try in real life it's nothing like you imagined and that's why you give up and things get fucked, because life does not work the way we want it to work. So we just sit in a corner to cry and we create a blog to talk about how life is unfair and how we're too ugly to be loved. But oh well, I think that I was right anyway: you need to think about it for a while, then decide if this suffering can lead you somewhere; once you notice it won't you can just relax, pee and eat ice cream for 2 days and then move on. Just move on, dude, that's how it works. It's that simple. If it will lead you somewhere that isn't a hole nor a grave, you can keep trying but if it's gonna make you just miserable for a few years then you just have to give up and stop that shit because you're just like living around a person who's not even next to you and that is pathetic and pointless.
Oh my god, I had to say that even though I am away from my point. But it's okay because right now I do feel better and I haven't felt this well in months. Thank God. I'm so happy and grateful. I am going to meditate, that's what I wanted to say this whole time. I can either keep destroying myself and moving on with this diet thing that makes me eat less than 50 calories some days, or I can try to fix myself again, to fix my life and live again. I haven't lived in a long time. I think I deserve a little bit of happiness. And I believe I will be okay. I will pray for your souls and for my ugly body and then I will try to keep myself away from the hole but, oh god, if I ever fall again, at least I know how to get out. She's right there, it's right there, you just have to do it. No one is there to help you, nobody cares. So it's up to you, darling. Don't overwhelm yourself, don't hurt yourself, don't mangle yourself because you're not the football captain. Do you know how he got there? He just did it. Try hard, stay chill, and move on.

I can not imagine myself as someone depressed. A depressed person is someone who suffers from depression. I imagine depression as sitting in a big black hole crying during the whole day and drinking or cutting forever, everyday, all the time. I imagine depression way worse.

I wanna be sedated

I'm having anxiety for everything. It's hard to move my arms and fingers and my hands. I think I'm dying or I'm about to die. I hate this and myself. I feel high, and I didn't get high lately. I dreamed with zombies and I was shaking because it was scary to think about them. I'm scared about dying like this. I'm  afraid it won't stop or it will get worse. Please love me and help me.