First of all: Fuck me.
This may be or may be not fiction.
I really don’t know how the outer-world treats dirty words. I come from a place where they are normal, in a nice, healthy way.
Re-reading last sentence made me think that I need to tell you this: I am not lying and I’ll not be ironic/sarcastic without explicit telling you. This, and that I’m not writing this for you, to be pleasant, to offend (but if I do I won’t regret it). I will only tell you the truth: My truth. If you don’t like it just stop reading and go eat some avocado-based food.
Well, let’s talk about me then. I am male, I like boys, girls, trees and Anunnakis and Greys. I am not thirty but over twenty. I already tried to kill myself, but I know I romanticized this event more than it had actual impact on my life. I am a programmer, not a good one, not a bad one. I am fat. I am not ugly. I don’t know how to dress. I am not poor but I don’t have money to buy what I want. I live with my parents. My father is old, my mother not so much.
I am currently not normal.
I do not know exactly what I’m experiencing, I am not actively searching for profissional help because it’s expensive. I have guesses: Depression, Anxiety, Panic Attacks, that kind of stuff.
What I know it’s pretty simple: Every couple of days I have this “attack” where I cannot speak, cannot control my thoughts, cannot ask for help, it hurts and leaves me feeling like I was kick by a horse.
Which brings us to Why I am writing this. I cannot talk. Not to someone that matters. So I am here to register these… Hmmm… Memories, anonymously (which the best tools I know how to use, but I know it’s not much).
Everytime I feels like it, I will come here and write some shit. If you can find me, feel free to read and ask me something.
PS: I don’t know what tags use so forgive-me.