Today I spent a day off from work compiling a list of things to buy:
- SN,
- meclizine (OTC anti-emetic),
- paracetamol for headaches.
Since I can be a fearful OCD perfectionist, I'll probably also (try to) get metoclopramide, and benzos from a doctor. While accessing SN is easy and legal for me where i live (hint: eastern europe), I don't have any doctor who would prescribe me those things, I haven't found any online pharmacies, and I am not going to be buying from illegal sources, I'll either get the meto and benzos, or I won't; death awaits for me either way. Would really like to not fuck it up, as I hope it'll be literally the last thing I do.
I've tried. God knows--fucking hell, I've tried. Do you believe in miracles? Because only one could save me.
I would not write a book about my life, since everything can be said in one word, plus a question mark: "Why?" Why write about my life? Why not? Why am I so deeply fucked up and wounded? Why do I still shine light even if it is so? It's just a series of circles and contradictions, all overlapping each other, altogether they make a chain that stretches from heaven to hell.
I know I need to do it. I know, because I'm a stranger to this world. I don't belong here, so why stay? The night is still young, it's 2023, wake me up when we're out of the dark ages. Or we won't be out of the dark ages--I don't care, because I'll be dead. I don't care right now either way.
Life is an anomaly, and within it, I'm a smaller anomaly. An anomaly as pointless as everything my life has become. I'm in the constant process of undoing and unbecoming, unwinding like a spring of a toy car in motion, and when I'll reach my destination one day, I won't be picked up to play with anymore, I'll just rest on the floor till I get carried away in a trash bag--somewhere. Not that I could care.
I've always cared too much, anyway.
- SN,
- meclizine (OTC anti-emetic),
- paracetamol for headaches.
Since I can be a fearful OCD perfectionist, I'll probably also (try to) get metoclopramide, and benzos from a doctor. While accessing SN is easy and legal for me where i live (hint: eastern europe), I don't have any doctor who would prescribe me those things, I haven't found any online pharmacies, and I am not going to be buying from illegal sources, I'll either get the meto and benzos, or I won't; death awaits for me either way. Would really like to not fuck it up, as I hope it'll be literally the last thing I do.
I've tried. God knows--fucking hell, I've tried. Do you believe in miracles? Because only one could save me.
I would not write a book about my life, since everything can be said in one word, plus a question mark: "Why?" Why write about my life? Why not? Why am I so deeply fucked up and wounded? Why do I still shine light even if it is so? It's just a series of circles and contradictions, all overlapping each other, altogether they make a chain that stretches from heaven to hell.
I know I need to do it. I know, because I'm a stranger to this world. I don't belong here, so why stay? The night is still young, it's 2023, wake me up when we're out of the dark ages. Or we won't be out of the dark ages--I don't care, because I'll be dead. I don't care right now either way.
Life is an anomaly, and within it, I'm a smaller anomaly. An anomaly as pointless as everything my life has become. I'm in the constant process of undoing and unbecoming, unwinding like a spring of a toy car in motion, and when I'll reach my destination one day, I won't be picked up to play with anymore, I'll just rest on the floor till I get carried away in a trash bag--somewhere. Not that I could care.
I've always cared too much, anyway.
