Throwing up has become my only pleasure.

Not talking eating disorder; I envy those fucks. Poor body-image is just a shitty holiday. This is more like snuff on perpetual loop – i’m the principle as well as supporting cast. Perpetrator and victim.

Oh, how I hate being the victim.

It’s not the helplessness, I kinda like that – knowing that you have no choice, that this is fucking happening no matter what.
It’s the mentality, that’s what gets me. It sidles up on you – this “its not my fault!” battle cry that slips between your lips when you begin to blank out on a conversation because this thing inside you knows you ain’t paying attention. It begins to infects the rest of your organs, bleaching your skin its miserable “fuck my life” hue that doesn’t even show up on any colour chart. Before you can blink Nothing is Ever your Fault again. Everybody knows it, will look forever upon you with plastic sad and soap opera pity.

Oh, that sickening pity makes me want to collapse your lungs with a knitting needle.

Human beings will never be able to get me off ever again. That faux-empathy turns my stomach inside out, and not in the good way. Lock myself up in my filthy apartment of things and never leave less I have too. Sleep till my eyes atrophy, cake over with mucus. Imagine this to be the beginning of some grand biological scheme – first tiny steps towards chrysalis, that if I could only sleep long enough the result would be total transformation, not this inbetween lark. I never can though, never can sleep long enough.

Sleep brings not joy – only the purge can do that. That rising burn, delectable spasm. The stinging meat. That bitter stench.

I’m one of those. Those whose skin fails to keep you out, that sucks greedily at your words and inbetweens. Nom nom nom. It’s Not My Fault, it’s you, you and your fucking humanity spilling out like toxic waste. Has to go somewhere and that somewhere is me and my ilk, soak it up to be catalyzed and puked out. Why? Because. Because you changed the game. You forced the genome to adapt. You all stopped feeling but you didn’t stop talking.

Fucking endless disconnected blah blah blah from mouths and fingers and those masses of soiled grey napkins you call brains – gallons upon gallons of gibberish filling up all available space. There’s only so much a biosphere can take, you know. Only so much I can take…

But it’s okay, like I said. Only pleasure I have left.

Keep it up buttercup.