John and I helped Nick move in rather early this morning. Nick treated us to breakfast at the Elgin Street Diner, although rule #3,462 of the Male Code states that “The universal compensation for buddies who help you move is beer. The reward formula is as follows: (hours of labor) x (number of boxes) x (flights of stairs) / dollars, in hundreds, of damage to belongings = beers owed”, so sayeth the scriptures.

I recently renewed my contract with my current host for another year of service. I’m a little surprised that this page hasn’t fallen into desuetude over the last year. I suppose it’s only now, at 22, that I’m able to find meaning in almost all aspects of my life, that I have enough to write about. My previous seven or so pages have been rather empty, although there was more variety in the content. I don’t think I’ve ever had a layout last this long.

It’s usually when I have a negative emotion that I’m able to write, but the last year has been a series of ups and downs, although mostly ups, and considered to be more stable than previous years. Sometimes I can read back on previous entries and re-experience the emotion I was feeling at the time of writing them. I’m surprised that I’m not embarrassed about some entries, how rawly I’d express myself, and what I was thinking at the time. I find that I’m usually embarrassed by how ignorant, stupid, and idiotic a person I used to be. Aaron explains to me, of course, that it’s all just a measure of how far I’ve come, but it’s sometimes it’s difficult to think of what I was like and not feel shame.

I remember the nights I spent, after all classes were finished, coming home, cooking a meal, taking a shower, all I’d have left was to sit in front of my glowing monitor and write. When all I wanted, at the end of the day, was to be able to turn the lights out, write until my eyes felt too tired to focus, and go to sleep satisfied. I’m not sure if I remember those nights fondly or not.

And perhaps there are more to come.

Now I know what it feels like to be high maintenance.

I’m exhausted but I’m not tired. I must sleep but I can’t sleep.

Sometimes I wish I was strong enough to gut myself. I’d make a line across my stomach, proping myself against a wall, and try to pull my intestines out to see how far they’d stretch. I’d make a hole on the left with the tip, curved for better control, and drag to the right with the edge. To enlarge the hole, turn the knife blade facing away from you and place between your index and middle finger as a guide. I’d cut my arms open and tear out the flesh to make sure I couldn’t sow myself back together. Sometimes I just draw the lines on my stomach, mixed in with all the writing, and imagine that the coldness of my pen is the chill.

For some reason, it helps.

I need a plain black, long-sleeved shirt.