A knuckle against a brow.

Sometimes when I get so restless thinking of the things I have done, and the people I've done them to, I wretch with remorse my bed and grind my hands and knees against my face. I do this to ward myself against the ghosts of my past.

At night, some nights, like tonight, I lie in bed and drink whiskey and think of all those I've hurt by not just telling them how I feel. I hurt people by doing things with them and then not telling them how I feel. By being friendly but not a friend.

Sometimes I think I know what I want in life, and then I become afraid. I'm so damn afraid anymore of anything, of losing my job because it's too good for me, of losing my friends because I'm not charming enough or smart enough or sexy enough, of becoming a nobody, or rather, more of a nobody.

I'm too afraid to allow myself to be with anybody. I realized that recently. Relationships are stinky-poo, and I don't want to be in one. I don't want anybody, because whoever it is, they're not good enough for me, and I'm certainly not good enough for them, could never be worthy.

I don't know why I started writing tonight. I think that I was lonely, that I have secret sorrows I can't tell anyone, and that maybe this would make me feel better. It hasn't. It never does. Some mistakes I will never forgive myself for.

Drink more.

Promise me, promise me, please, that I can stay awake long enough write out what I really need to write, or just long enough to know what I want to write. I may just delete all of this later, it won't matter, none of this matters. All that matters is that I know.

I think I'll need at least another million words to try to express this pain. The funny thing is, and seriously, this is hilarious, I haven't even really done anything extraordinarily regrettable, I haven't done something so bad to feel this bad about, but I do. The implications, oh the implications of what I've done! How ruinous a single thirst, a simple impulse can be. I just don't know.

I am shamed.