I was always the fucking outcast. Always. I came from a broken family, had barley any friends, and hated myself to death. I often sat in my room and plotted the multiple ways I could kill myself and thought of the reactions people would have. Nobody would care, I thought, not one person.
Then one day I moved to Los Angeles. I had a fresh start. My apartment was small, but it was good enough for me. I knew nobody in LA, and nobody knew me. I was a freak, who had a different color hair every other month it seemed like. I was also about six feet tall with heels on, so everyone I passed on the street always suggested: "Woah, do you play basketball?" Or, "You're tall and skinny, are you a model?". Most guys in LA were shorter than me too, so that made it very hard to date or have friends.
The only fun I ever had was going to clubs and getting drunk as hell every time. I often drank my problems away when I was sad. I was always sad, so that made it hard not to always drink.
My life was so fucked up. I wished every night that it would get better, but of course it never did. It never has. It never will. I'm beginning to completely give up on life. I have pills for when I'm ready, but for now, I'm going to just have fun. If everything comes crashing down, the pills are my way out.
