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10/16/2003 10:42 p.m.
I am angry. I am so angry that I literally want to cry. I wrote an entire poem depicting exacltyhow I feel, and this stupid fucking internet explorer lost it. I lost it. It was perfect. Fuck. FUCK!! There are no better words than the words in the poem and now it's ceased to exist. it's already 90% gone from my memory. Fuck!!!! FUCK!!

A stifling heat
thick and oppressive humidity
people are nothing but shimmers
of midday mirage
concealed by the heat in the distance.
Unimportant.
Illusions.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!! That was the mild beginning, roughly. The rest of it comes to me in shards. God I hate this. Fuck. What a stupid fucking loss. Iknow I'm gonna be ashamed of this entry tomorrow. Today I don't care. it can be my stain. What the hell kind of poet am I if I can only put words to a feeling once.I still feel what i felt and "Fuck" is so bloody inadequate you just can't comprehend it. Slang for sex. My anger has nothing to do with sex. God damn it!! I want to hit something. I want to hit myself. too bad may arm isn't at good angle to punch myself in the face. Not that i'd do it. How pathetic is that? Look at my cheap talk. God I sicken myself. I think I'll disappear, so as not to infect those around me. Also so that I don't hit them. I'm pathetic, I'd hit them but not me. That is sick. I'm repulsed with my own feelings surrounding ym anger. my stupid, selfish uncaring feelings when I'm angry. What a taint. I want to wrench myself inside out so that i dont have tolook at my hands typing these words. Instead I'd be looking at bloody gory bones with muscle underneath it and veins all through the inside. I think I'dlike it better than these hands. There's a single tiny mar on one finger, 10 bitten nailsand10 bitten cuticles. aside from that, they are fine.perfect even. skillful and maybe to somebody beautiful. I dont feel that way.I feel like the mar, flawing an otherwise beautiful existence. Imay delete this later. that disgusts me too.I'm too ashamed to accept who I really am. Too busy in hoping in being something else, in being someone else. but who am i? I'm trish. nomore noless. I keep reaching for perfect trish without tiny marsor flaws or bitten anything, but thats not me and how disgusting is it that I can tellpeople to be themselves and love themselves and yet myself want to be better? I'm not better. I'm trish.
I am currently Angry