Comfortably Fucked Up

1pm: Today I can't seem to get the temperature of the shower water right. It vascilates between scalding and tepid, with every turn of the nob. Closing my eyes cool water washes over me, I can't help but stare at the basin floor as a possible resting spot. It is not uncommon for me to slowly lower myself on to the cool floor of the shower, a controlled descent. My hands push the shampoo and oil and dirt out of my hair, so that I can once again open my eyes without soap rushing into them. I turn around slowly, bracing myself on the white tiled walls, and stare at the wall beneath the shower head. It begins to morph, becoming convex at the sides, while the other tiles remain flat, unchanging. My gaze is trapped by those pesky afternoon withdrawal hallucinations. I cross my arms under my bust and watch as the water pools in the creases of my arms until rolling down to hit the floor. It might have been hours that I spent standing in the shower, it might not have been me at all. Now clotheth damp hair, I'm still waiting for the hydros to kick in and my stomach to stop rolling.

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8:30pm: My fingers keep tickling the back of my throat until my stomach finally takes the hint. I repeat until my stomach pain finally subsides. I shouldn't have eaten a large blizzard and then dinner. The thought of this makes me feel nauseous again. Purging shouldn't be the answer to this, but I do use purging when either I've drank too much beer or my stomach is rocked out from eating too much. I probably haven't done it in a year or something, at least it's not a usual occurrence in my life. I guess I need to prove to all of you that I  don't have an eating disorder, or something which  is why I'm saying all of this.

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2/26
7:36pm: Depression. Crushing despair, boredom, self-hatred blankets me until I feel it choking around my neck. I want to break this, I just want all of these feelings to disintegrate. Apathy would feel better than this. Although I've accepted a job, my conscience smothers me with guilt because I'm not doing anything. I am a lump on the sofa.

To me, life has no intrinsic meaning. We are all parts of the natural world, with a finite life span, until we decompose and our elemental parts become new natural forms. The only goal I have for life is to be happy. It's a big part of why I use. If life has no greater purpose than for our own enjoyment of the experience, why not feel as good as you can?

No matter my logical conclusions, suicide clouds my mind. I don't really want to do it, I love my family and  R and all of my friends. I feel so low right now. I'm such fucking scum. A junky piece of shit. I guess at least I'm comfortable like this. Comfortably fucked up.