Welcome to the new century.

I feel like punching something very hard. It's a great stress-relief mechanism, to shower gratuitous physical violence upon an object or a person. I wish to indulge myself in it.

Actually, maybe I should have some showered on me. Get beaten. To a bloody pulp. Like half-annihilated and almost dead. The sort of violence where the simplest thoughts and actions, such as BREATHE, BLINK, become tasks of great importance and skill. Where you don't so much begin to wish that it were over, because you're beyond pain, but you wish you could figure out what's actually going on. Beaten senseless. So that I look something like


Except with hair. I have nice hair. I'm half Mallu, you know.

I used to know a girl who would cut herself with a blade. She did it because physical pain was preferable to the other kind.

I'm beginning to understand the concept of Fight Club. Maybe we can start one. Disco Pig's Club of Fun Times. No punching on the nose, I'm all sneezy.

This is exactly the sort of behaviour that leads to schizophrenia and DID/MPD.

Remember the first rule?


"Ol' Miss Lucy's dead an' gone,
Left me here to weep and moan."