I always remember how much I hate myself late, late at night. And by that time there's nothing I can fucking do about it. I had a really vividly gruesome dream about cutting last night, or rather, a dream about trying to cut a large part of my skin off and then trying to sew myself back together, only to realize that I had nothing to stitch myself up with. I woke up still thinking I had the cut on my hip. Fucking sucks. But no one is interested in knowing anything about me. I live a live of silent fucking rage. And no one knows because no one is interested. I don't know what makes me seem like a boring person, but hey, maybe I am. I'm considerably happy during the day so no one thinks anything is wrong. Then I have to go home and face myself. Shit. I deprive myself of sleep so I'm too fucking tired to think of anything during the day. I've gotten to the point where I can't even verbalize exactly what I'm trying to say.