Entry #5: Alternatives. <January 26th 2026>
Everything feels miserable now. But i lie when i say this, because it’s not everything all the time. There’s moments when my elation rivals my misery, where i wonder what fucked up attention-seeking method I’ve tested to delude myself into thinking I’m anything but content, that my life is just so perfect people wish they were me. And then there’s moments like these, where I’m misery’s number one companion, when I’m finally someone’s number one companion.
It’s said that understanding yourself on an intrapersonal level guides you to the best version of yourself, that you can finally attain the ideal image once you’ve understood how your mechanisms work and where your faults lay. I think that’s a load of bullshit. If self awareness has ever brought me anything it’s existentialism. It’s knowing what’s wrong with you constantly and never understanding how to fix it because no one else seems to see the faults you know are there, that every interaction could be better and that you’ve said the wrong thing but everyone’s still laughing but that’s not what it’s supposed to be like because for fucks sake that can’t be all i am, that’s not all there is to me. It’s knowing why you can’t ever seem to reach that perfect version of yourself you’ve conjured up because you cannot humanely be perfect, but godfuckingdamnit you can try. It’s knowing that you will never be loved the way you want to be and that melts any semblance of compassion you have for yourself away because all you really are now is unloveable, that there’s something so severely selfish and nihilistic to you because nothing can ever seem to be enough. Nothing anyone can do is ever enough and if it ever seems like it is, it’s a hopeless lie and I’m not naive, I’ve been there before.
You’ve resigned yourself to never attaining what you actually crave, that the validation you want will never actually come because no one ever sees what you want them to see, they see you for what you are and not your mentally metamorphosed self. You won’t show it either, even if you could, this part of you is a secret that you and your only companion share. You use it as leverage to water your corroding roots, tangling them into knots with misery, so entwined you don’t know where you end and she starts, or if you've ever been yourself instead of some amalgamation of angst in a flesh suit. What happens to you is the way of the universe because you’ve established yourself as an entity deserving of pain and reprimand.
She had her fun with you, you never said anything, and now it would never matter because in the grand scheme of things it just wasn’t a man. Maybe She should’ve put more weight on your delicate infant throat, crushed your pharynx and left you to choke on your own bile and phlegm so that at least then you wouldn’t have to look at Her and be filled with guilt so severe you can never keep the pricking out your eyes when they meet hers now. Maybe They should’ve left you before they did, so you wouldn’t have had to grieve the bravado you once had, the surety of belonging with those who picked you rather than those who were stuck with you. Maybe you should’ve tried harder, mustered up that flicker of courage to finally loosen your jaw, unlatch your fangs from the veins of everyone you’d ever met and infected with a disease as vile as you. Maybe you should’ve never hesitated, maybe all you really needed to do was guzzle bleach and benzodiazepines and finally, finally give in. Maybe that's all you still need to do. Maybe that’s all you have left to do.











