it's a fucking psykodrame.

If I were an animal I would like to be loved. As a person - and animal aswell - I need it too, it hurts to don't fell it.
You could have all. But if you don't fell at least a fucking little respect and love, you fell sick, fell like shit.
I would love to know how to demonstrate my feelings, my thoughts, but I think I can't even draw anymore. I have the fucking idea in my head, why my hands don't do it?
I would like to show how I fell, like Trent Reznor do, with a fucking good and beautiful type of art, in a way that can make people cry or fell that are not alone in the world.
I should give my blood to know how to put it off of me, just to have a good think after all this shit.
Hate. Sadness. Illusion. Hate. Sadness. Illusion.
Fucking nights with any purpose. Just sex and hangover.


The hand that feeds can hurt too. Fuck, my head hurts, my heart cries. My mind are lost. I even know how to use a pencil anymore.
Fucking sore heart. Fucking tears that don't stop rolling throw my face.
I hate fell like that and don't put it out! I just want to do something nice.
I just need some fucking money to buy my sketchbook. Why this country is so fucking expensive?
My body are so tired, but my mind don't stop. Millions of thoughts every second. Just spinning and arguing with myself. Just thoughts that cannot leave me sleep.
I even fell my legs. It's just pieces of meat. God. I love my legs. I need them moving. But i'm so tired. The only things that still moves are my fingers and my eyes. My throat is sore and my feet are like ghosts.
My mind don't stop. I fell useless. I wish I could do somenthing now. I wish I have my sketchbook, a fucking pencil, a brush and some inks. I need some money. I NEED FUCKING MONEY.
I hate some people. I hate idiot people. I hate people that things they're the fucking hottest thing on earth. I hate idiot girls that really thinks that having sex with a lot of people is the same of being sexy. IT'S NOT! It's loneliness. I know it. I really know it.
It's just loneliness and horny. They're together have a crazy massive result. And it's casual sex.
I wish I could do something for myself right now. I wish I could go to someones house and just powder till the day comes. I wish I could go to someone's house to stop the loneliness, doesn't matter if it's only for some hours, it's enough for me.
I don't know, I don't know, I DON'T KNOW! When I start writing I don't stop anymore. I wish I was a good painter to give to J.'s some pride. I'm a good girl.
Good girl. He always says it. He always looks. He always get close. He's getting closer. But the fucking slut is close sometimes. Shit. What do you mean I have the nife and the cheese on my hands?! I don't. They're empty. I wish I had.


Fuck Fuck Fuck fuck Fuck. I just want to stop this fucking stomachache. It hurts and I'm feeling sick. I need to urine too but my body is so fucking tired. I think doesn't have any blood in my legs.
March of the Pigs make me want to dance. I wish I was in a fucking goth basement dance club with Trent Reznor spinning and punching the air like crazy. Just because it's good, I don't know why. But it's good. It makes me fell better. I know it makes you fell better too. Just punch the air in a fucking dark and bad smell place, with the light going on and out, just making you get crazier and breathless. The drums make me want to kick someone. Trow myself of the fucling window, just to fell the wind on my face and my body. I know he felt what I fell. Probably, exactly the same.
I want to scream. I want to punch the air. I want to spin my body around myself and the room. I want to dance like a crazy junkie bitch, like old times. I want to have my hair back combed again. I want it. I need it. I hate every fucking people in my city, the fucking parties are just shit now, but I love it, the atmosphere, the music, the sensation that I used to have well I danced all night. I need your fucking body dancing like crazy with me. I eally want a cigarette, but my throat is sore and I don't have 9 euros to buy a fucking cigarette box.
March of the pigs, march of the pigs, march of the pigs. Just my fingers moving. The music inside my head. My back is hurting. My head doesnt stop. It's just too fast. Too fast. Too fast to live. Too young too die.
Fuck, I don't want to stop writing anymore, but I just write shit. I need to sleep, I want to sleep but my mind don't let me go, I fell I'm waisting my time sleeping. But I love to sleep, speacially in some occasions, after some acts.
Fuck. Crazy loneliness that don't go! Why I ate like a fucking bitch? My stomach hurts and I'm felling sick. sick sick sick sick sick. Fuck now I remember that the punk girl knows a lot of people that I do and I just had a crazy fuck with his fuck-friend. Whatshit what can I do now?
Shit.
Trent Reznor. If I was a men, I would like to be him. Seriously. I would love to get high with him and listen to some crazy music.


Love.