I want to smoke a cigarette in the bathroom, but I can't

 I have to pee, though. I'm going outside, I guess. I really want to smoke a cigarette in the shower. I want that so, so bad. I did have that before--before I broke up with Pluto. That's what I called him in my book, but I unpublished it when my mom saw something about it on Facebook. The book was a bit risqué, anyway--more risqué than this journal, I guess, although it's easier to find my real name with my journal. 

I'm sitting in the shower anyway. It's nice and arm against my right leg. I'm glad I can still sit like this, even though I'm 41. 41. So fucking old, it seems. Crazy. Crazy. Like Almost Famous. Yeah. I was, I guess. Almost. But not quite. Sunny is. Good for her. She says she doesn't have time for friends now.

My screen is getting wet, so I guess I'm going to go. I was going to make a daily journal improved singing video, but I tried it, and it's kind of lame. I haven't told you anything about my day, but it's Father's Day, and I made a banana trifle for my dad. And hung out with Colleen and ate a legal THC gummy. I remember I use real names in my blog, so I don't have to remember fake ones or pseudonyms or whatever. Ok, screen is wet, goodbye.

well good god damn

 I just turned on Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth with Money in my Hand. I used to listen to this when I drove for Domino's--on repeat. I loved it, even though it was kind of melancholy contentment. I have a bus ticket to go back to Indiana tomorrow, but my boyfriend and friends want me to come back to Cochran. I wonder how many people would read this if I were dead. I've thought about being dead a lot lately. I've definitely begged for it. My friend's roommates think what goes around comes around, and it makes me wonder if I've done a lot of fucked up shit to deserve what's come to me, or if it was just supposed to happen or if free will is even a thing. Who the fuck knows?

I was going to finish writing my book in Indiana, but my Freewrite typewriter is broken, I think. Sad. I already have 60k words, but I thought it would be nice to finish it where I started. The reason I'm going back is because I got in a huge fight with my parents because I'm a slob who doesn't like to be yelled at like they're a piece of shit, even if I am a piece of shit. It's all relative, really. 

Maybe people will read this shit if I don't make it too long? I don't fucking know.

This is so goddamn stupid. I'm too old for this shit. 

fuck fuck fuck a duck screw a kangaroo

 a lot has happened since i last wrote, of course. i think i was hospitalized again. i don't know. but i'm in school now. for social work. and i'm doing a theatrical production about my life. that should be interesting. i've been maintaining my sanity with kratom, neurontin, and the occasional hydrocodone and ritalin. i'm out of everything, though, and i was having a nervous breakdown, i think, so i drank two little bottles of liquor colleen gave me. oh yeah, we've been hanging out again. that's cool.

i don't want to be old.

i don't want to be fat.

i don't want to be balding.

i don't want to have bad teeth.

i want a lover.

i want a home.

i want i want i want i want i want i want i want.

goddamn. does god exist? oh yeah, i've been talking to the mormons lately. for a minute i was thinking they were right, but now i don't know. who fucking knows, really? who the fuck? blah.

i'm listening to grandaddy. they're the jam.

Meh

who knows what all has happened since last time i wrote.

i'm back at my parents'.

i spent a week in the psych ward at coliseum. it was ok. food was good.

i hate masks. ugh.

am i really quantumly connected to jupiter? did i really sell my soul accidentally to the devil? is the devil just devi? who knows.

I hope the whole goddamn world explodes

Fuck you bitch at Coliseum

She called me to see if I still wanted to do outpatient, even though I left a message before Christmas. She said Medicare wouldn't transport me there, and I asked if I could attend while living in a homeless shelter. She said no--that I would need a case manager for that.

Long story short, she started giving me the abrupt "uh-huhs" which made me want to reach through the phone and slap her ass.

I want euthanasia.

There are no long-term treatment facilities (that I'm aware of) for people suffering from bpd unless you are rich or have good insurance (I only have Medicare and Medicaid). I just got out of my 8th hospitalization a couple weeks ago. I have decided that it is improbable that I will ever get help, and I am tired of suffering. I beg for death every day. I have no future. Most of my friends are dead. The ones left don't have anything to do with me. I have a toxic relationship with my entire family. I can't get a job. I can't enjoy television, video games, or anything. I was okay when I was in the psych hospital, but that's just a temporary fix. I want it to be over. People have gotten legal euthanasia in Europe for similar conditions (I have schizoaffective, PTSD, ADHD, and fibromyalgia in addition to BPD). I don't think it's fair that I have to suffer. The only reason I haven't already ended my suffering is because I'm scared. But if I had trained professionals help me, I wouldn't be.