"but, sammy, what about the crazy?"
honestly, i'd rather just try to cope as much as i can than go back there. being told over and over that "maybe a bit of exercise would help" isn't helping. i know i'm fat. i know how fat i am pretty much everyday. did you know most bathrooms have mirrors? apparently my therapist doesn't!
"she's trying to help."
no. i don't buy this. honestly, if i'm being honest? i think she's all "well, you went to a fancy school, but you're still messed up, so maybe you're just not that great."
duh. i mean. fuck you, bitch.
i know i'm not that great. this is me, telling you how much i have panic attacks when i can't think of something to have for dinner. my brain sucks, and i hate it, and i hate me, and you know what? i hate you more than all that put together.
and it's not that fancy of a school. i just didn't decide to start putting letters after my name because i paid $12000 to a "registrar".
registrar is a weird word. why do we have it?
so
tl;dr: i'm going to try to treat my insanity with alcohol and probably more stories. but, really, you have to understand how hard it is to write when you're crazy. it's not fun. just
lots of not fun.
sorry.
