everything I’ve seen about the ash trevino saga was against my will — how does one bleach their brain.

a passionate kiss with a gun barrel will fix me.

“you have issues.” darling, I AM the issue.

hoa hoa weather today.

don’t ask me to love myself, I’m not my type.

what I meant to say: frontal lobe what I said instead: frontal lobotomy

sometimes my brain cells kiss and I have an epiphany about something that happened years ago.

“you should eat healthier to live a long life.” bold of you to assume I want to live at all.

my attention span has gotten worse to the point that I watch tiktok videos in 2x speed.

the urge to delete everything and just disappear.

somewhere along the way, I lost the person I thought myself to be.

I could peel my skin off for them and people would still question my loyalty.

i'm stuck in the eternal hell that is me

missing vent is like missing your toxic ex that ghosted you a week after saying the relationship was going to be alright.

endless shadows and disembodied whispers — they strangle me, taunt me, as my battered hands continue to pound against the bloodied walls of this fleshed cage. I scream — my lungs bruised and my ribs fractured, yet there is not a soul in sight — had I been forsaken? were my cries too petulant?

I yearn foolishly, once more, for what cannot be — previous lessons preposterously forgotten as my mind chooses to abandon.

I complain about routine but proceeds to have a mental breakdown at the slightest disruption in it.

there’s no crueler curse than being fated to be forgotten.

"do you like anyone" you want me to die.

my brain is 90% brain rot and 10% philosophical debates and literature.

I like to call him captain hook.

having disorganised attachment is my own personal hell — craving closeness but fearing vulnerability.

forever destined to be abandoned, never meant to be worth the stay.

I do not wish for someone who would be the sunshine to my gloom but one who shares the same melancholy as I — two halves of the same moon, one brighter than the other.

why are your eyes welling up with unshed tears over a notion you have not yet, and quite possibly never will, experience? — how utterly foolish of you, you pitifully fragmented creature.

I’m not meant for anyone but myself — a solitary soul, forever fleeting but never permanent.

Good morning, slightly preparing for today’s mountain of meetings and endless conversations.

well, it’s going to be in my note now. :)

truly the end of an era.

being on Vent right now is like watching someone you love taking their final breaths.

at this point, Vent needs its own physical museum so that years down the line people can know the mouth app existed — along with the undying hate for Jamie.

I lay in my bed, my exhausted form once again plagued by the never ending thoughts. they entangle and they knot, their metaphorical threads twisting into ropes as they wrap around my neck. — I unashamedly let it choke out the morsel of happiness that had barely satisfied my long standing starvation.

I cannot bear to look in the mirror — all I see is a fraud, a being stitched together with the ideals of others but never their own.

Day 2 (?) of making unblinking eye contact with this UI and angrily willing myself to be used to it already.

every night I ponder the meaning of this dreary existence and every dawn I am yet to find an answer.

I am a museum of the people I’ve met, their personalities the artefacts carefully displayed — I am a gallery of others emotions, their love and hate the brushstrokes of the paintings that line the hallways. yet where does my true self lie?

I descend further into the void, the already thinning beam of light now nonexistent. my feeble attempt to reach for it is almost pitiful — “you cannot touch something immaterial and diminished, you miserable fool.” — I reprimand myself in the deafening silence of the gloom.

this doesn’t seem too bad of a transition I suppose, though I will miss the vent layout.