It's on repeat, once again. And I have to convince myself that everything will be okay.

I don't know what it is about the night, but I feel so fucking alone. I just wish someone out there was like me, staying up until 4 in the morning and whatnot. I mean, I'm 19. You'd think I'd run into someone like that by now. But everyone has school and work and I have... Stanley's Market.

I don't know. I was reading what I once wrote, a long time ago, when I was a different person. Or maybe I'm still the same, only this time the pain is without reason. I just was reading stuff I wrote when I first started this thing... and I just realized that it was almost two years ago.

Two fucking years. I can't believe how fast time flies. Two years. Two years of my life have been documented on this diary. I was just 17 when I started this. Time flies when... well, there's not much fun these days, but time flies anyway.

I think I'm melodramtic. I think I'm that way so I can have something to write about. I have been writing more in the past few weeks, what with the depression settling in for the long haul. I've even been thinking about writing about things that I've been too scared to write about. Some wounds are so fresh that it's not okay for me to delve into them.

But I think I'm okay enough to write about them. Maybe. I wonder what I'd say. I wonder if I'd be honest and truthful, or if I'd just try to sound good. I do that a lot. I kind of fuck around with the truth of the emotions just so I can sound good. Because the truth is, I'm pretty boring. The only time I wasn't boring is when I was on the verge of jumping off of a bridge. And I'm not now. I guess extreme emotions brings out the best in my writing skills.

Hey, anybody want to do something horrible to me so I can have something to write about? I think I'd eventually thank you, after I got over hating you. Thanks.