I’ve been on a more-than-usual misery trip, and this led to me being depressed (more than usual) for quite some time, for no apparent reason. Okay, I actually ran out of black eyeliner, but do you really need a reason for misery?
So yeah, I was feeling sulkier than usual. And since I’ve never tried the arcane art of making oneself bleed, I decided to have a go at it. I grabbed a really sharp knife from the kitchen, hid in my room, and in the midst of the music of Panic! At the Disco, I gave my flesh a nice, stinging jab from the sharp edge of the knife.
And it hurt.
I know most people would say that the pain outside only dulls the pain inside. No. It hurt like hell, DtH. It hurt like hell. I screamed, woke up my parents who were sleeping in the next room, and begged them to rush me to the hospital to give me a Tetanus shot. After hours of begging, I finally made them take me to the E.R., only to realize I have a fear of needles and I faint at the sight of them. No more self-inflicted injury for me, nosiree.
Now I have a five-millimeter long wound at my left arm and I gently change the Winnie-the-Pooh band-aid on it everyday. Religiously. And I cry when I change my bandages, because they hurt on the inside. Since I have proven to the world how much of a wimp I am, does that make me a true-blooded emo?
I seriously don’t know what to say. You, um, tried to commit suicide, yet you failed? That’s like… failing at failing. I suggest an extra-strong dose of anesthesia next time. Oh wait, you’re afraid of needles. Um.
Seriously though. Wrist slashing isn’t that bad. You’ll just end up with a huge gaping wound on your arm, where you could see through your blood sputtering in quarts all over the floor. And then you’d realize that you’re losing blood, but you won’t die. You’ll just end up living the rest of your life with a big-ass scar on your wrist and you’ll get wide-eyed stares from strangers who’ll avoid you like the plague. See? It’s awesomemiffic. Yay!
Also, Winnie the Pooh? What the fuck? Is that what makes you hardcore or something?
I broke up with my boyfriend the other week, and naturally, I locked myself up in my room for three days, wallowing in my misery and listening to Fall Out Boy, Paramore, and Dashboard Confessional. By the second day I was so caught up in their music that I was able to put my feelings to words by way of poetry:
Your uncaring ways drench me in sorrow.
Your obese ways drench you in sweat and cholesterol.
I hope the sweet hands of cardiac arrest take you soon.
I defenestrate all my feelings for you.
I don’t know what “defenestrate” means,
but it sounds cool.
Slashing wrists brb.
But it was too much. I could not keep my inner poetry. I had to find a way to express my thoughts and feelings. I grab a red marker, take out all my posters of My Chemical Romance off my walls, and I write. On my wall. For twelve hours straight. So now I’m staring at my wall, and I realize that there’s no space anymore. Oh, what do I do, DtH? I am overflowing with these words, these soliloquies of my misery! Where can I write my beautiful poetry?
– Running out of walls to write on
Dear Running out of walls to write on,
Know what? I’m rather disturbed. You care more about the lack of walls to write on than the more important things in life– like your apparent incurable bouts of depression (which a healthy slash to the jugular won’t cure) and your poetry, which I must say, is amazing. Amazingly sucky.
To answer your problem with the walls, by the way, here’s a sure-fire, no-brainer solution that will ensure you of endless writing space in the years to come:
How to give Running out of walls to write on an almost-infinite supply of surfaces to write on
- Get a bucket of white paint and a big brush
- Carefully paint over vandalized walls
- Leave your windows open, you moron
- Let the paint dry
- Write over whitewashed walls
- Repeat steps 1 – 5 ad nauseam
- Optional: buy a notebook instead
Yeah, notebooks. At least they’re portable. And they can be private- you don’t have to force your horrid poetry on those who don’t want to be scarred for life. And you don’t have to paint over them– no, you don’t put wipe-out over your notebook! YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!
Lost? Need advice? Send me your emo letters here!
All editions of Down the Highway can be found here.
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