Hurt.

Everything's fake.

My parents are fake.

Life is fake. I don't want to go through it much longer. Life is fake.

The Camper is fake. It's just a fucking prank or some promotional game or some stupid.. stupid.. no, I mean or it just fucking doesn't exist at all.

The police never got back to me about looking at the house. No doubt because I probably didn't actually call them; it was probably all in my head.


There's no real point, is there? To living. To blogging. So I don't blog much anymore. But who cares, anyway? I don't. I honestly don't. I blog out of a compulsion, feeling I need to post something. I don't care about the investigation, I don't care about my parents and what the fuck has happened. I don't give a damn about myself, either. I don't care. I say I care about everything, I say I can't not care, but that's a fucking lie. I can't care. I can't. I can obsess over things like prog, like female supremacy, like this investigation, but in the end, I don't really care about them. I just obsess over them, and I know I'll find different obsessions if they went away. It's how I work.

Duke Nukem Forever is one of the closest things to "fun" I've had in a very long time. Then I go online and I see that I seem to be alone in liking the finished product. Of course. People are such cynics. I hate cynicism. You want fucking cynicism, assholes? Do you want fucking cynicism?


There is a God, but he exists only to make our lives miserable. So when we die, we're not going to Hell. We're just rotting in the ground. We're sinking into fucking nothingness. But the truth is, I'd rather have nothingness than endure another day of this hell. But I'll stick around, just because I'm too much of a pussy to kill myself. I'll suffer in silence because I can't get any louder. Because I don't care.

I put on the front of "caring" to please people. I put it on while hoping it'll inspire people to care about me. Maybe someone can spark emotions in me. But no, so far, no one has. People have gotten close. I've lied about many things over the years, but "I'm happy" is the most frequent one I tell. I'm not happy. I'm never happy. If I say I'm happy, I'm just distracted. If I'm not distracted, I'm left with my thoughts. My daylight nightmares. Then I get "sad." If I say I'm sad, I.. well, I am a little. But I've learned to detach myself from my emotions. So I just feel empty.

Empty is all I know how to feel, at least consciously. The only way I can feel anything positive is to simply distract myself, to subconsciously detach myself from my emotions.

I don't love. I fear. If someone is close enough to me (figuratively), I fear the day that they begin to hate me. It always happens. It always does. I fear the stone-cold silence to come, the days when all possible love that used to be there is nothing but a fading memory in my mind. Those days, I desperately try to please them; I want to cling to the days when I feared the future instead of the present.

I'm hungry. I haven't eaten anything but a Pot Noodle today. It's almost 10 PM. Yesterday I did the same, just a Pot Noodle. I hear Pot Noodles aren't very nutritious. Well, they used to make me feel full. They've stopped.

..I fear the day this investigation becomes active again. I fear the possibility that that EAT thing is real. A real Eldritch Abomination, and it knows my name. That'd just be a perfect end to my life. Because my life hasn't had enough hopeless desperation already. I fear the day I have to tell my parents what really happened to Nathan.

I fear the day I drown in progressive rock.

I feel something in my throat. It's tears; I recognize that. I want to cry, but I don't feel sad at all.

I just don't.