*....

I doubt you guys even bother to look at this anymore. I know it'll show up in Rett's thing. I wish it wouldn't, he's an ass hole.

I can't believe I just cut myself again... It's longer and deeper than ever before; it's not going to heal quickly... I thought about writing a poem, but that's lame. I write shitty poetry. I just write shitty stuff. I just do shitty work overall. That's why my grades are in the toilet. I'm not even trying that hard. I should be. I should be working on my homework now. I should be getting caught up. And yet here I am, writing this. And I can't even tell you why I'm upset, all I know is that I feel empty and alone. I wish I could be at the cast party, with people who at least pretend to like me. I seriously doubt anybody likes me a lot of the time. I mean there are people who like normal me, but everyone's going to get tired of dealing with depressed me. It's happened before and it'll happen again. No matter what they say, nobody can deal with it forever. They'll all leave eventually, and I'll be alone. I kind of want to throw up right now. I don't want to be bulimic too though... Cutter, depressed, self inflictive, suicidal, bruiser, stupid, bitch, selfish, annoying, loser, fail... I have enough labels without bulimic too. What makes this all the worse is that I could have stopped myself. I knew exactly what I was doing. I cleaned the damn blade before doing it. I even paused for a moment before doing it. I could have stopped then, the only damage being the first layer of skin being cut, but no. I had to do it. And this one will probably scar. They all scar, I just think this one might stay. It might not leave. It might give me a permanent reminder of what I am. A cutter. People avoid cutters, they try not to get involved with them. No boy wants to date a cutter, they don't want to be responsible for that. I can hear my mother's words in my head, "You're going to hell." And she only said that because I wasn't going to synagogue, what would she say if she knew I was a cutter? I can't ever tell her. And nobody wants a cutter as their psychologist. Why would anybody want a cutters help? I don't know why they even talk to us. Us. Now I'm part of a group. A group of exiles. Because nobody wants anything to do with cutters. Emo. That's what most people would call me if they knew. Emo. Because they don't know. Dayna would call me a poser; she'd say I was just doing it for attention. She'd say I wasn't a real cutter because I don't slit my wrists. Because it's not deep enough. She'd say I was a poser because I dress the way I do and cut myself. She'd use that to reinforce her idea that I'm a poser, the way I dress. I know that Dayna doesn't know anything. That she's a poser. I've always know that. But yet, she's a cutter too. We have something in common. She probably isn't anymore though. She's found someone to hold her and somebody to keep her safe. I don't have that...

Well, my parents are home. I have to go...