I disgust myself.

I don’t deserve to indulge. The way I think is unhealthy. It had never left my room before. Never existed in the open air for anyone to pass judgement. Anyone rational at least. God, I’m disgusting. I don’t want to ever make her feel uncomfortable. Certainly not about something so sacred.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I do create conflict. Maybe I need to live in a state of chaos in order to have fun. That’s all I do. Try to have fun. Do I need it to have fun? What do I need to have fun? Drugs? Sex? Yes? The monster wants company. Hormones fuck you up, my guy.

I’m actually an addict. Fuck, I know I’m an addict. And it’s self-perpetuating. The more I think about how much I want it, the more the want slips into need and need drips into uncompromising animal drive. 

I want to hate myself. Hurt myself. Destroy myself. Shhhhh- Don’t talk like that. Don’t indulge like that. What strange things make my blood pound. Should I indulge or abstain? Which will make me feel better? Which is better for me?

It’s hard for an addict to seek redemption when the thought of addiction is so seductive. It’s hard to commit to being disgusted with myself when even that turns me on. 

The line is there, I’m sure. I just don’t want to see it.

One thought on “I disgust myself.”

  1. The book of not knowing- peter Ralston, although it’s an advanced one, but you can go through it. But don’t think too much.!

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