Gore. Pain is stupefyingly magnificent. A throe of depression hit me like a malevolent torpedo yesterday. Methinks I had a major breakdown after Butiki left me here in this dark and resonatingly gloomy apartment with but the unwashed dishes to wrestle with. I skipped washing the dishes and they're still there, attracting migratory microorganisms and breeding a new colony of complexly named diseases. It's not that I am a slothful human-sized potato, though I am ninety-five percent of the time, it's just that my unwashed dishes are the cataclysmic result of the pandemic water shortage here in our city. Aye, I am never to blame! I are immaculate.XP Screw the Philippine government for my unwashed dishes!!! Gaaaaaaah!

And as I was saying, the unwashed dishes thus triggered my depression which plunged me into existential burst of suicidal wrath yesterday because my life was splattered with watery shitcakes all of a sudden. For one, I haven't been cerebrally stimulating myself lately, making me incapable of rational thought processing, bullet-speed narcissistic streams of consciousness (all about me and myself and my palpable world and my imaginary world), and of course the wit. That biting sardonic wit. Two, I can't write short stories anymore. The intestine-like tubes coiled and amassed together into a succulent viscera of my brain are seemingly turned into lubricated packets upon packets of used deflated condoms bound together from end to end. It's like all of what should be inside the condom, the tamod and the hardened thingy that's supposed to represent the creative cellular configuration in my brain--they, they're all gone.o_0 Since I am the levitating personification of Pure Mental Thought, stripping me of mental stimulation reduces me into some kind of diabolical African elephant crap. Succinctly, I am empty. I am empty and pointless and meaningless when my brain is a vacuum of echoing darkness and nothingness. Then for some reason I just popped like an overgassed helium balloon with sparks and confetti sprinkled around my head telling me my cranium had just burst open and splattered my brain sporadically around my feet, my brain matter throbbing, dripping, shivering, and glimmering before my loosely attached eyes.

FUCK. I need YOSI.

It could've been a mental breakdown. But it scrooood my emotions like some random glitch of destructive mania, and caused me to breakup with my boyfriend.XP And since my emotions are completely incomprehensible at the time, this emotion provoked by the government backlash of unwashed dishes in my sink, I just wanted to die.XP Uuuuugggggghhhh. Call me pathetic but I am sometimes emo to the point of pretending to be an emo, painting my fingernails and eyelids black and hauling all my hair to one side of my face while mouthing the line, "I deserve to die," with a lone tear smearing black powdery ink on my white cheek and a bread knife on my hand cutting my wrist on the other. And because I cannot feel my pain, I am incapable of being emo with the fashion statement and ubiquitous emo-makeup and everything. Most importantly, not even a tiny droplet of tear would slide down my cheek. I am in pain but I cannot feel it and so I turn it into physical self-destruction. Suicide? Yawn. Cutting my wrists? Cliche. Hanging myself? The previous tenant of my apartment already did that. Overdose myself in sleeping pills and wrap my head in an airtight clear plastic bag and sleep peacefully to death until carbon dioxide replaces all my oxygen airbag? Err. Either way they're all suicide. Yawn. I want to feel my pain slow and torturesome, like marinating myself in isopropyl alcohol and burning myself alive lechon style with a bamboo stick pierced from my anus to my mouth. Long story short, I am the Shivering Paragon of Cowardice for I have leapfrogged from considering suicide, and all I have left to constructively hurt myself is to get myself a bloody tattoo. Hence, the third tattoo.

A bloody lizard.o_0
Like, this caption is so useful.
It's like having a tattoo of the screaming tribal word "tattoo".
Errrr.

My six-year-old lizard tattoo.
Back when my skin was unravaged by third degree burns.

Anyway. I still am horribly depressed. My tattoos are bleah I swear to Queen Nefertiti. I'd be gloating and salivating over my design, thinking it's the most kickass tattoo design any mortal can ever make then when all the squealing and cries of mercy are done and over with, I'd grab a mirror and scrutinize my fresh and blood-slick tattoo until a word pops into my head: characterless. This is so abominably fucking ordinary.

Not to mention the tattoo didn't hurt much however painful its strategic location was--from the bony center of my nape to the back of my right ear. Otep, the tattoo artist, showered me with praises of bravery and unflinching response to the rotating needles. I played the Butiki's Rubik's cube to keep myself entertained. Holy fuck, wrong move. Damn.

Word did you say?

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