I was laying in bed-- laying? lying? lieing? I'll go with laying. I was laying in bed with my face sort of wedged between two pillows. For some reason I woke up and thought to myself that this arrangement was quite comfortable. It was so comfortable that I wondered (in my not-so straight-thinking slumber) whether I could make it even more comfortable, and possibly achieve a near-perfect level of comfort to drift back to sleep into like a falling feather. So I fiddled about a bit, tugged on the pillows, re-angled my body. It was less comfortable. I adjusted even more, and it was less comfortable still. So I tried to restore that original position (which was quite comfortable), and was only able to arrive at a mocking shadow of my earlier state, taunting me with its soul-crushing comparative imperfection. So, being much less comfortable than before, I fell into a fitful sleep and had bad dreams of madmen hunting me with carving knives.

In auditing news:

The Custodian -- on page 37 out of 40 .... This is getting heavy, folks.
wertperch -- on page 6 out of 10 -- progress!!
gnarl -- on page 3 out of 6 -- better than nothing!!

Okay. I said I would never be back. And I'm not, really. It's just I'm so used to coming to this place for comfort and this place has a kind of mutual understanding that faceless people offer, and you kind of become addicted to it.

Where am I in life? Who am I? This is kind of a teenage-midlife-crisis thing going on here, and most of you are probably already shaking your heads at my naivety. I'm scared, to be honest. I feel like I'm not ready for everything the world has in store, but at the same time I want to run and embrace everything there is.

For one, I am a bi-sexual female. Or at the very, very least I am bi-curious. I want to kiss and love other women, but I also have a preference for men. I don't know if that's conceited, having a preference when being bi-sexual in today's society denotes the idea that you love both sexes equally. I don't know. I have lost all interest in Asian men, when once I swore I'd marry an Asian man. I don't even know why, maybe it's because I'm trying to break the stereotype my parents are shoving onto me. It's just a mental aversion I've developed, and maybe I don't want to be the perfect Asian daughter people think I am. I don't know what it means to love. And I suppose that's okay, because people my age are stupid and don't know what love is. I'm not sure if I want to love, actually. I'm happy as I am now.

Me. Selfish and dirty and young and happy and wild and free and trapped and scared and courageous and insane and hurtful and honest.

It's wonderful.

My parents don't really approve of my life choices anymore. When I came out as an atheist, my parents pretty much told me that I'd be going to hell, and they'd never forgive me. But then they went on to pretend it never happened, and I go to church without complaint because I'm scared of what my parents, particularly my step-dad will do to me. I sit there and let my mind wander because I'm not up for listening to the bullshit that's been instilled into my brain since I was born. This is why I hate religion, particularly in my family. Fuck you for judging me and telling me I'll burn because I may never marry a man, and I'm going to have sex out of wedlock one day. I wish I grew up in a family that was more open-minded. I wish I was brave to scream out everything I'm hiding. Who fucking told you to baptise me anyway? I realise now that I never really believed. I just believed in believing. I'm sorry if that offends people, but I have a brain and a voice too, and this is what is logical for me.

I'm probably never going to come out as a not-straight-maybe-bi-sexual person to my family. I don't even like that label. I'm just going to love who I want to love, kiss who I want to kiss, fuck who I feel like fucking. If they happen to come with a vagina, hey that's great too. People are people. I don't care about being gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, trans-sexual or a being a fucking polygamist. Love is a concept anyway. What do we as people actually know about love? And yes, I'm directing this to people I know as I write. Writing therapy always worked for me.

I've been drunk. I've been high. I've kissed people that I don't know, and passed out on the couches of friends, waking up with bruises on my arms. I've been scared, I've been tired, and I've been inexplicably happy. I've really felt like I've been loved, and felt completely worthless at times. I've wanted to die, melodramatic suicide note and all. I've wanted to run, start a new life. Taste real freedom.

I want to live, really live. I want to get out there and share my love of music with everyone. There are at least 2 dozen songs sitting recorded on my laptop, but I'm scared of putting them out to the public because it's like baring my soul to a bunch of soul-sucking dementors, and I get this feeling in the back of my head that I'm not strong enough to deal with how cruel people can be just yet. Maybe one day. I've fought against the instinct to sing about superficial shit that people love to listen to, only because it's safe. I refuse to do that to myself. It's all or nothing, really. 

So, I'm doing it here. Typing out all my fears onto this page, and when I'm done, everything will be out, and a few dozen people who may not have ever seen my face will know me for who I think I am at this stage. And the people who see me every day will see what I want them to see; the perfect little daughter with high hopes and a smile for everyone she meets. I'm going to wipe my slate clean here, and when I'm done I'll move on with my life.

So, ranting is the best option for me now, because suicide is stupid and I'm not stupid. I hope.



I'm being a clichéd, first-world teenager who's self-centred and hates themselves, the world, and people in general.

Step one, acknowledge.
Step two, move on.

I'm turning 18 next week. I'm attending university next year. I'm sitting my final exams in a few months. I'm moving on, growing up. Is it okay to freak out a little?

Fuck, yes.

And I'm sorry if this is offensive to anyone, because a fair few people here knew me. Or at least they thought they did.

Actually, I'm not sorry at all.

Goodbye, my dears.

It has been many months since my last visit to E2. Months spent living as I have seen others do; full of joy and movement and some less than desirable qualities. I promised myself that I’d only return to E2 when I understood what it was to me. At the risk of beating a dead horse, I consider this place a home. One that I’ve skulked in like a terrible wraithe, shying from recognition and light. But still a home. I very nearly raised myself on the various “how-to” nodes, learned romance and killed my white knight complex, cut my teeth on literature as a whole in this wondrous hive of scum and villainy.

So what does this mean? I’ll be using this daylog as a manifesto of sorts. No no, wait I need someone to bear witness to my burst of madness. I enjoy writing. I’d like to write more. I enjoy E2. I’d like to become a more active user. So I’ll be writing more on E2 and fighting back whatever shame roils up in me and grow as both a person and a writer. I already regret this node.

Oh right, people primarily use the daylog as means of venting or acknowledging events in their lives.
I gambled on many colleges and nearly lost the game.
I learned the meaning of stress.
I traveled to rather bustling city, bonded with a few classmates and, lived in the moment for once.
I’ve come to terms with my depression.
I’ve gained some understanding of myself and don’t particularly like what is present.
I’m graduating.

I lived. It was a nice change.

This was largely unedited and almost devoid of softlinks.

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