Things aren’t good here. I don’t like to see evidence of my personality in my house. I don’t like he idea of domesticity it makes me feel sick. I’m not home anywhere. I need to survive again. I let it go and I’m sad and sad and sad over it. I want to run free. Perhaps there’s nothing to run from though. I’m afraid of many things, my own mind and anywhere I stay too long because the walls will be stained from the way I stare at them contemplating suicide. The closet is dark and every night before I fall asleep I look at it and think about dying.

And Anthony Bourdain has died from apparent suicide.

I’m not in a good state of mind.

People open up to me. This is new. Coworker of three weeks told me about pretty serious family issues. I don’t know why. I’m better with men now I guess. I don’t know if I like that. I wish I could just be alone. Honestly I’m going to have a breakdown.

I feel no responsibility and I feel no weight on my shoulders. I’m a free agent. I just feel sick. It’s the result of a touch on the shoulder and too much socializing and too much time with myself. I’m not talking more than I need to today.

I’m not sane. I’m abstract. I don’t want to be knowable. There’s no problem here. I’m in a state of purgatory. I never paid attention to the whole deal. I left and snuck out of the house. I feel like a criminal in my own home. None of my thoughts are mine. I fled to adulthood and that makes me feel shifty.

There’s no music in my veins or even blood. I’m alone, I can’t deal with myself anymore. Places are stained with terror.