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2010-08-27 / 11:52 p.m.

(From before)

God Joey.
I've drank about twelveteen vodkas ((I'm surprised typing's still a feasible option)) - an amazing prospect for somebody who used to get emancipated after two beers. I believed in emancipation, really.

Now my mother looks at me after my suicide attempt, like I'm a cartoon character that we can laugh at. I laugh sometimes too, like my heart didn't stop for a minute and seventeen seconds and I didn't lie in rapture on a bed I'm unfamiliar with. We don't pay to be public.

God Joey.

She looks at me like that night I didn't piss myself, like I didn't cry 'cause I couldn't find my plush elephant. Like my father didn't tell me I was being sent to ICU. Like they didn't laugh when I remembered it to be a good idea to say "I see you too". Like they didn't laugh.

Like I didn't shit myself on my cheap hospital bed the next day. Like it wasn't shit, but black black iron I'd ingested when I overdosed.

God Joey.

She looks at me like I'm such a selfish bitch.

"Snap."

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