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2010-08-15 / 10:34 p.m.

It's half past ten and my house is painted over in sleep. I'm wearing an all-in-one pyjamas with frogs on and my head hurts, just as it has done, always has done for the past fourteen (fifteen?) months. This chronic pain deal really wears on a person. Things are difficult and life goes on and I smile and sit in garden chairs while everybody else laughs and I try my hardest. I mean, I really fucking try so goddamn hard but it's not enough. Never enough.
Every time I get drunk it's a disaster because I dance with dogs and eat jelly babies and talk about sex and nobody knows what to make of it and I think the most unusual of thoughts and then I cry and guess what? My boyfriend thinks I'm not going to be here in year. I told him that if I was to do it again, I wouldn't end up in hospital this time. Not alive. I'd do it right. I break his heart and he's so, so lovely and lonely and it breaks my heart that I hurt him like I do, but I know no better. I can't fix this.
I fell asleep just shy of six o' clock this morning and I woke up on a mattress on a floor of a house that I don't know. Have never known. I lifted up a stuffed toy dog on my feet over a hundred times and pulled on flowery jeans and lay on the patio with the real dogs eating potato waffles and batting off the flies.
Hangovers bring on the guilt. My heart, oh my heart.

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