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I have to drop Creamsicle off at a friend’s (not the one I’m twacking out about in the next paragraph) house tomorrow because I’m scared of him getting lost/hurt out here.

I’d do anything for another chance, or just to talk to my friend one last time—or even for them to just believe me when I say that I’m sorry. Being cut off and told to fucking move on by everyone isn’t working, what a shocker. I truly believe that nobody who says this has any idea what they’re talking about. I’m skirting a bit dangerously close to getting myself addicted to fentanyl. That’ll be fucking fun, won’t it?

All they have to do is realize I’m not a fucking freak—which they might already realize—and talk to me, but no, the way I feel ~%*isn’t normal*%~, so I have to die. Too bad I was born with a fucking penis, eh? I wonder how they’ll feel when I die. I actually hope they don’t give a single shit about me, because I don’t want them to be sad, or blame themselves or whatever. I’m not even sure I want someone to reach out to them for me, to give them the letter I want to write for them.

There’s just no place for me in this world.