Ive been to hell and back so many times

Sometimes you all scare me. Because there are so many of you now.

In my mind though, you're a small grou of ten or possibly twelve out there reading. I feel as though we could all fit around one or two tables in a bar. That we all know each other and speak in low voices about our secrets and troubles. This is how I feel until I hit that "stats" button. Then you all scare the shit out of me. And when I'm afraid, I run.

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I'LL DIE IF I WANT TO

Rules of attraction

Been down and out for a while now. My fever still runs high, and my mind is almost starting to get used to this overheated state. I try to fight it by dressing up, pretending to have plans that require dresses and high heels. Last night I almost made it to the front door before I passed out.

Luckily, I was dressed in a very suitable way.

Jil Sander really does make the perfect dresses for corpses.

What I have been up to

Fever sweats and strong pain killers

I've spent the last couple of days in bed. Half awake, half asleep.

I dreamt about Patrick Bateman carefully removing my teeth with a hammer. One by one.

Someone once told me that dreams about loosing teeth means you're worried about being forgotten. Spot on, Id say.

It was in the deepest of sleep Ive been in ages.

GREED IS GOOD, SEX IS EASY, YOUTH IS FOREVER

Abandon all hope ye who enter here

Another sleepless night passed. Autumn, you used to be my hero.

My savior from the torture of summer heath. The passion in august makes me sick.

With half closed eyes I stood on my balcony, overlooking this burning city for hours. Cursing the stars and spitting t'wards the moon. The cold breeze I used to think of as my equivalent to holy water passed me without it's once vibrating solicitude.

(Original sin, unable to wash off

Insomnia, one of my nine circles of hell)

The red wine dripped down on my chest, painting my white nightgown blood red.

Tim Burton, can't you please direct my life? Im sick of the Polanski taste I never seem able to spit out.

Remembrances of guilty pleasures past

Remember Chloè?

I saw a crow this morning and it made my heart stop. Black eyes, dead feathers.

When he lifted off and flew away, I felt as though I was watching her leave all over again.

I might as well had swallowed a thousand nails.

Read more about her here, and here, and here

SONG FOR CLAY

Feasting on sleeping pills and camel blue's (Self pity wont save you, Eva said with a troubled look on her face)

Self pity can be the most beautiful thing, if executed properly

- Matching underwear

- Red wine or bourbon

And it's also less sad if done in the company of beautiful girls. In a bed.

Im yours to knock around

I stayed in last night. Eva kept me company for a while, but later left me alone with my books. Her phone called, and something more important demanded her attention. I've never asked to be her highest priority. She's never been mine. Needless to say, this is true regardless of the fact that I love her. I really do.

When I called her in the middle of the night, in a haze of plum wine and attarax I could her just by the way she said "Salut chèrie" that she was having sex.

She mumbled something about calling me later, but she only spoke in vowels.

It's been forever since I forgot all about consonants. Not even Tramadol can do that anymore.

IMPERIAL BEDROOMS

Woke up realizing that the Tramadol had worn off. The thing is, it only kills pain if taken before it really hits you. Otherwise it's nothing more than a light layer of cotton covering a wide open wound.

Sorry for being absent today. It's to cold here to move. I dress in cadavers but it only helps so much..

Eva is on her way. Ive never let her inside my home before. And she, much like a vampire can't enter without a proper invitation. I'm busy downing two bottles of wine.

I need the head start. She has her own path towards that sweet goal of nothing at all. A total blank. I can't deal with the powder.

It's to early for snow. It's to late for blessings.