I bought an SX-70 Polaroid on eBay last week, recieved it today. I shot the film in it just to test it out, and it worked beautifully, perfectly. Then I leave it on the counter, go out for a bit, come back and pick it up. Slowly bring it up to my eye and... SLIP. It hits the concrete floor of my apartment with an evil "Keeeeeeerack!" Dead camera, everyone pray for it's entry into camera heavend. It held a shortlived, but dramatic life (and death). Goodbye.

So Dexter and I were having sex the other night. I asked him to punch me. He said no. Eventually I convince him. He hits me in the chest, once... twice. "Hit me in the face! Goddamnit!" SMACK. He hit me in the chin, hard. It felt so damn good. I don't know what this means. I saw stars for a minute. It hurt to smile; he hit my jaw. I smiled anyway. I got him off, and felt better than I ever have before. Now, the blow wasn't sexual in nature. It wasn't the masochism that made me feel good. It wasn't sexual in nature, exactly. But I loved it. I think Dexter said he'd never do it again. He cried, I think. Maybe I just want him to have cried. I loved it. I don't know how hard he hit me, but it felt like he hit me as hard as he could. I've got 60 or 70 pounds on him, but it still felt hard. I don't know what to think about this. It's the first time I've ever done anything like it. I don't think it's the domination that I like. It's something more intrinsic. Something deeper rooted than just sadomasochism.

I dream about suicide still. And I never know where the line is between fantasy and reality. I don't know if I'm serious or not when I say I want to take a circular saw to my neck when my Dad was gonna bring one over to take apart some furniture. I could do it, I think. And I wanted to. But at the same time it seems like the most absurd desire. So unbelievable. I've been in this muddy gray zone where I firmly want to die and can't take myself seriously at the same time. I don't want to die. Not most of the time, but I have moments when I'm sincere.

I'm fucked up. I'm getting better, but I don't know where my brain is getting it's beliefs from. I'm going to talk to my psychologist about the pain thing - getting hit and liking it. And I talk to her about suicide a lot. And I feel like I'm getting better, but I'm still pretty fucked.

I turned applications for jobs in this week. I feel good about making some efforts. I also bought a Prada bag for myself and I sold two photos for a total of $550. My life is shaping up, but sometimes all I want to do is... you know. But I don't. So am I just looking for attention? I don't know. I don't know what I want anymore, and what I tell people I want. I don't know if there's a difference. I have a corresponding proximity to death that saves me from maintaining goals and dreams. That way I don't fail. Only, isn't death the ultimate failure? No... I am the ultimate failure. I'm kind of serious. And I'm kind of joking. I don't know if I'm capable of making the distinction between success and failure. Instead I just make myself think I'm miserable. It's all cognitive. I make it up. I am my own worst enemy, and all it takes is a change of thought to make myself happy. Or at least to make myself think I'm happy. And I'm getting better at cognitive therapy. That's good. If you couldn't figure it out for yourself... that definitely is good.

I have Berkeley, one of my guinea pigs on my lap eating spinach. He likes it. He makes me feel good. I'm responsible for him, and I love that. And I think he loves me.

It is nice to be loved.

Nice, yes.