TwentyOne & Counting;

One:  I was born dead with my chord wrapped around my neck; my father gave me CPR to save me.

Two: The man who is solely responsible for the air in my lungs today, is the same man that spent 7 years trying to beat it out of me.

Three: I can’t remember any of the bad stuff. I hate it, because I want to hate him, but I can’t because I don’t even remember why I want to hate him.

Four: I obsess over things. Whether it be the current boy I’m interested in, a song, a color, a movie, a theme, etc. etc. If I like something, it’s everything to me until I grow bored with it.

Five: I get bored with things pretty easily, you never know when my “obsession” with something or someone is going to just click off; I have a tendancy to unintentionally leave people in the dust.

Six: I “let myself go” because I was afraid he’d come back for me if I stayed attractive.
Seven: I hate myself now for not being beautiful.

Eight: The only time I feel pretty is between the sheets; but the feeling of disgust returns as soon as he’s done.

Nine: I bite my nails till they bleed, it’s the only way to keep the razorblades put away.

Ten: I like the feeling I get in my stomach when I have consumed nothing in a week but alcohol and sleeping pills; the hunger let’s me know I’m still on track.

Eleven: I take on everyone’s elses issues as if they are my own; it’s my way of escaping the reality that I will never be over the things that have happened.

Twelve: I’m a recovered(ing)(ish) drug addict (Meth. Crack. Cocaine. Pills.); but it’s slowly becoming a different addiction. . . Alcohol.

Thirteen: I can’t stand most of the people I say I “love”; including my family.

Fourteen: I don’t know what I want to be when I “grow up”.

Fifteen: I don’t think I’ll ever be “grown up” & able to take care of myself.

Sixteen: I go to bed every night crying, because at some point in the day, I have failed.

Seventeen: I am certified in business technology & office administration & still can’t get a job; it makes me feel like I’m personally defective.

Eighteen: I don’t think I can tell you the last time I felt honestly wanted, or loved.

Nineteen: The one obsession I’ll never be bored with is music; the one thing in life I am sure of, is that someday I want to own my own music venue. . .

Twenty: In Canada; I hate America.

TwentyOne: I plan on committing suicide if I’m not dead by 50; I think life past that age isn’t worth sticking around for. I am terrified of getting old.