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Diary of an Emo

"I wish I was Argentina"

Blog entry 2
Sadness level: Frighteningly enormous
Total number of scars: 209
Current thought: Everything is just a sea of bleakness peppered with waves of my suicidal tendencies.

I have not blogged in so long, for the sadness that sweeps over me brought me to my knees, forced me down, like so many quashed souls, empty and broken, bleeding black and staining Earth. It has been nearly a year, in fact, since I was last able to pen a coherent sentence without being overcome by grief and slicing messages into my arms and legs.

The other day I was told by a passing stranger that I was merely crying for attention! As if he knew everything about my life! But has he walked a single day - nay, a single step in my shoes? No! The shoes are too small and rub against my feet, leaving them red and sore! The lives that I touch try to do away with me, ignore me, disregard my feelings, engage in fun when I am not involved, excluding me from their bath of happiness! The plants I keep wilt and die, and the pizza I cook is cold and out-of-date! My libations do not quench my thirst like a good Sprite would, but merely serve to show me what I want but cannot have: quenched thirst!

I traipsed home, razors in hand and sobbed for hours, constructing poor excuses for sentences to try to release my pain. But each look at the poem I attempted to pen so crudely filled me with hate and self-loathing. How could I write so poorly? How could I not show the world my pain, through words!? Each tear I made in that fated sheet on notepad paper with the crimped edge at the top felt like an enormous lifting relief, but it was still stabbing me when merely pieces of the tattered page littered the floor. My father made me hoover, said I look like a woman or perhaps a grotesque puppy. I did as he said, then carved messages into my arms, wrote more poor poetry with my razor. But the letters with holes proved difficult and bits of flappy skin were everywhere, so I had to give in. Another failure!

I wish I was Argentina. For then, people would at least cry for me, and I would be obliged to ask them to stop.

-Misunderstood
(MNA, August 12th 2007)

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	Diary of an Emo "I wish I was Argentina" Blog entry 2 Sadness level: Frighteningly enormous Total number of scars: 209 Current thought: Everything is just a sea of bleakness peppered with waves of my suicidal tendencies. I have not blogged in so long, for the sadness that sweeps over me brought me to my knees, forced me down, like so many quashed souls, empty and broken, bleeding black and staining Earth. It has been nearly a year, in fact, since I was last able to pen a coherent sentence without being overcome by grief and slicing messages into my arms and legs. The other day I was told by a passing stranger that I was merely crying for attention! As if he knew everything about my life! But has he walked a single day - nay, a single step in my shoes? No! The shoes are too small and rub against my feet, leaving them red and sore! The lives that I touch try to do away with me, ignore me, disregard my feelings, engage in fun when I am not involved, excluding me from their bath of happiness! The plants I keep wilt and die, and the pizza I cook is cold and out-of-date! My libations do not quench my thirst like a good Sprite would, but merely serve to show me what I want but cannot have: quenched thirst! I traipsed home, razors in hand and sobbed for hours, constructing poor excuses for sentences to try to release my pain. But each look at the poem I attempted to pen so crudely filled me with hate and self-loathing. How could I write so poorly? How could I not show the world my pain, through words!? Each tear I made in that fated sheet on notepad paper with the crimped edge at the top felt like an enormous lifting relief, but it was still stabbing me when merely pieces of the tattered page littered the floor. My father made me hoover, said I look like a woman or perhaps a grotesque puppy. I did as he said, then carved messages into my arms, wrote more poor poetry with my razor. But the letters with holes proved difficult and bits of flappy skin were everywhere, so I had to give in. Another failure! I wish I was Argentina. For then, people would at least cry for me, and I would be obliged to ask them to stop. -Misunderstood (MNA, August 12th 2007)