I sit at my computer in silence. I am afraid of closing my eyes, and I can't look into a mirror. This is my suffering hour. I don't know who to talk to, or what to say to you, my nonexistant readers. Too often I get like this. People don't see me this way, so they assume I'm ok most of the time. I'm not. This is my state of affairs. I can barely see the screen from the worms crawling out of my pupils. I know that nobody likes to be around me in this state, but that doesn't change my madness. Every day I'm more alone than the previous. I want to go to Austin, where I can maybe steal an audience. I remain unheard, unread, and unrecognized. It's got to hurt to look at this, but imagine the pain I'm in while writing these little words. I can't give any solutions for my affliction: it seems to be with me for good this time. A year I've spent in this relapse, and I don't even want to do five more minutes. I want to cave; I want to give up. I promised my Dad I wouldn't, but the only thing on my mind is freedom. Mock me as you normally do. To most of you, I'm probably just that whiney, selfish, crybaby. I seem to be, how did Jaime say it? Crosseyed?
My capacity to take pain is huge. When I was four, I ran around my house, and tripped on a doorframe. I landed teeth-first into a brick, curbstomping myself. That was painful, but more painful was the root canal afterwards. When I was a child, I was allergic to number (novacaine and others), so I had no pain relief for the root canal. I didn't even cry. I give this anecdote as an example for my resilience. However, this thing I'm bearing now is far more painful and heavy than the worst moments of my life before it came to me. My pain never seemed to stop growing since February 2004, but my threshold is finite. I'm near the end of my rope.