Fuck Thursdays.

I can’t predict the future but I can almost tell you for sure that this won’t be the only time I’ll write this.

Fuck Thursdays okay?


If you’ve read about my insanity, you’ve read about my triggers and the closest of them all is like a curse floating above my head. Every time I even remotely think about my biology teacher, He hurts me. He hates me. He leaves me.

Every time it gets worse but He causes it and I feel so conflicted so many times.

Last year Dylan hated my teacher as well, I never understood why but I suppose it was because he messed up my train of thoughts and the frustration he occasionally brought only pulled me away from Dylan and pushed me right into His arms.

Well you never guess who we have now, for the third year on row, as biology teacher?

My thursdays are cursed.

This morning I took a shower with marks all over my body, they could resemble scratches but from much thicker fingers than mine and on places on my back that I can’t reach. It happens often, I know I deserve them often as well.

But my towel fell suddenly down into the water on the floor. (although I’m clumsy, I’m pretty sure I didn’t pull it down or something.)

My hairbrush broke.

My jeans got a hole in it.

My left shoe went missing.

My feet tripped on my way to school which resulted in my apple falling into the mud.

My free period got switched with the only course I hate the most: World War 2. I had no choice whatsoever, really I love my school. (note sarcasm).

My favourite course, or so called English class, got interrupted by the fire alarm.

My table at lunch was taken and there were no french fries left because of the problem (which set the alarm off) in the kitchen.

My calculator’s battery died.

My phone started playing music all of a sudden during French class.

I bet there might be more stupid, little disasters going on but by the end of the day I had his class and all I could do was sit, try to listen but most importantly try to ignore.

Classes are tough when I’m distracted by the sound of his voice, and the way his jeans hang on his hips or the way his belt always hangs loose or the way his boxers show when he stretches (which he does awfully lot) or when he ruffles his hair or wets his lips or even remotely tries to crack a joke and smiles-

Do you even get a small bit of how fucked up that is? That whole list is wrong.

I shouldn’t even find him interesting. I should look at the clock to see what time it is to escape class and finally go home. Not fetch my watch because I’d get conflicted on wanting to stay and watch him like a creep all day or on wanting to flee like a thief in the night and never needing to make eye contact with him again.

Last year, which I believed was my last year with him, I had multiple breakdowns in his class and I’ve cried a heck of a lot which he eventually noticed I guess and made me go to the psychiatrist. Believe me or not but I may have said in that small, claustrophobic room that I have feelings for my biology teacher.

He was there, the psychiatrist was there, Dylan was there but fucking left mid-conversation because he could sense I was triggered more than everything, I was there and I messed all up.

Now every time I see him I should feel awkward, I even bet he thinks I find it awkward.

But to be damn honest with you (, this insanity might be all in my head but still,) I am just scared.

Because the things I see myself do to those whom I love are worse than the average horror movie or nightmare. Those unimaginable scenes cause me so great pleasure at times, that I get scared of myself.

And we might be losing track on the subject but what I’m most scared of is the unknown fact of what He’ll make me do to those who trigger me.

This whole entry is messed up and random but the connection I feel towards my triggers is causing me more problems than ever.

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