Writing my memoir sucks! I hate having to open up my closet and bring all the skeletons into the daylight. Remembering what I’ve done causes me physical pain. =/

I’ve been so depressed over the last two weeks. I’ve been snappish to friends, sarcastic to almost everyone, and generally an asshole.

I’ve put in a sick call request to mental health. I can’t survive for long under this pressure. I think a medication tweak is needed. I’m just not in a good place.

I’m a used condom. I showed such promise, danced my little dance, then discarded.