I want to get tattoos. I want to get hurt. My fucking wife asked me if I was cutting myself, yesterday. I don't know if I should be offended or worried. Can I get upset? I mean, I do bring it upon myself. But I've never done anything like that. I have been self-destructive, to the point of implosion, but never with those sorts of intentions. It was always incidental, never the point.

The point. What is the fucking point?

There's lots of them. Insulin needles have them. 28 guage. My life lacks one. Scott has one. A sharp one. One that hurts. Almost as bad as the bruises from my insulin. But most of the time I ignore both. Neither are worth worrying about. That's not criticism of Scott. Criticism more of myself. That's for sure.

I've put a few things together: a) I have better things to do than b) I really should start looking around for dates c) I should get a job d) I really don't want a job but I really want some of my own money e) I don't need to hang out with kids that make me feel like shit and most importantly f) some of my friends make me feel like shit.

Yesterday I didn't really do much. I went to the shrink. Found out my college insurance will pay for the whole thing, and that's why I haven't gotten any bill. Rock! Got a telephone bill threatening to cancel my service if I didn't pay (my last check bounced and I really couldn't do anything to stop it). Made some definitive plans for Seattle. Talked on the IM too much. Watched three (yes, THREE: Mad Max, The Crow [yeah I know, I'm a moron for renting it], and Taxi Driver) movies. Wanted to get out of the house but didn't. Set some things straight with some friends. Read a book I've read about a million times before (Youth In Revolt). I downloaded the first ten million digits of Pi. I whacked off twice. I had a pretty boring day. Today will likely proceed similarly.