2002-06-05, 5:43 p.m.

I open my book. My book with my razors. One razor from one of those cheep plastic shaving razors, and the other from an exacto knife.

Both gone. I search everywhere, frantically, sobbing. I want my razors.

I curl up in a little ball and cry onto my knees. my knees are the only thing that can hear my sobs.

i need my fucking blades. where are they?

i run out of my room, and grab a real razor. not the cheep plastic ones, but the ones with two blades. a brand new one that has been in a safe case till now, hasnt seen anything that can make it dull. i tear it apart with an envelope opener. ive never used one of these before. a real razor.

now i sit, 2 razor blades, and 4 bandaids in a line. i dont want 4 to be enough. i want to bleed so much that all the bandaids in the world couldnt stop it.

here we go. I look at my destruction. left arm, 5 cuts. long, deep. right arm. 2 lines, all down my arm. from wrist to elbow. lovely. too many bandaids. i want it to stop bleeding so i dont have to deal with it. so i can keep cutting. i want more bandaids so i can keep cutting. i have one. one. one bandaid isnt enough for a sufficent cut. I get up to look for bandaids in my parents bathroom when i see a whole box. i want to keep cutting. i dont want to ever stop. i will never stop.

yesterday: half of a plain baked potatoe; no skin today: half a brownie, half a can of soup, handful of chips and juice drink. purged the chips and juice drink.