Cagey's Journal.

Day 6. (4.8.21)

Today my mom took my only source of protection that would help me go outside more often. Not only did I spend money on my tools, but I'm pissed she even dug through my things and now I have to figure out how to replace my utility boxcutters since I don't have a license yet. She threatened to unhinge my bathroom and bedroom door when I locked it. I would've been fine with it too, because it only proves how little she actually cares about privacy. I don't feel safe. I need my boxcutters.

Day 5. (2.22.21)

If it was next year already, then it would be 2.22.22!

*

You really aren't supposed to tell anyone how you feel, ever. I had an argument with a group of people over whether hatred as a concept is as cut and dry as it is, and I don't think any of them understand or could ever understand. It sort of hurt me to know how absent of empathy they all were. They were so obsessed with getting their definition of hatred across to me, because they thought I "misunderstood," but didn't take the time to listen to just a single person with a differentiating opinion. You'd really think that people with a desire to understand would take at least bare-minimum efforts to break the speech barrier and just listen, but people are so obsessed with their own image and conserving general consensus. Why do they cherish traditions for the wrong reasons?

I think hatred is important. I believe it's a strong word, but I don't think it's a bad one. To hate something with passion follows a strong desire to criticize and change it. Nobody likes it when you make fun of them for loving someone, because you can't control these feelings, so why aren't I allowed to hate people? I didn't ask to hate them. It's up to them to figure out whether they'll let me help them change, or I can make it worse for them.

I no longer feel dread to his name. I don't feel it, but I can tell I took it personally when he called me a "friend." I don't want to be friends. I can get comfortable to this symbiotic workspace though... it's put my mind at ease and I haven't felt at shock since. I guess I'm selfish to the end.

Signed, Cagey.

Day 4. (2.12.21)

I came back home after lunch (there's this hole in the wall that serves really good ramen, so it's worth going out for) and Boober, the neighborhood gray tabby, just walked into my garage. He sat in my lap for half an hour in the cold with me, and left. It was probably the warmest thing I experienced this entire month. He has a bald spot on his head, hahahaha.

Signed, Cagey.

Day 3. (2.10.21)

Why won't he change? Am I not threatening enough? Is he just too retarded to understand his life's value? I wish he just fucking changed, or better yet killed himself. He's the common denominator to everyone's problems. How dare he think he can lie to me and slip away... it's almost an insult! Haha. I want to feel his scalp tear and stick into the prints of my fingers when I thumb his skull inside and play with his brains. My visions have never felt so right. He's so lucky my rationality reigns over my impulses. I bet his skin tastes like raw, room-temperature porkchop and a dusty glasses case.

*

I wish I had more to look forward to in life. I'm nothing more than a tool to be used for everyone else's image. Everyone wants to be friends with me, because I've been portrayed as the strange one just for holding true to my ideals when in reality, nobody takes the time to understand my truths. The world is so shallow. One problem I have with some works of fiction is the little details that makes a person feel like an actual life at stake are left out; we never really get to know about what someone does for fun, or what their ideals are. Even then, most protagonists are likely to have black and white hopes, and are blank slate for the sake of self-insertion. I realized it can apply to life, and I'm tired of it. What's so interesting about sports, or cooking? It all just sounds like a loyalty to the sake of living, which doesn't cut it for me. Maybe arts and music, but it's all selfish response (besides, I don't care about color theory or mediums or whatever artists talk about.) I feel like I've entered a stage of depression where I overanalyze everything and take apart the humor of life. Being self-conscious and denying myself the right to enjoyment, it truly is a paradox. Maybe I want to continue to devote myself to the concept of immaturity and hope, because I miss not thinking so much about it.

Perhaps it's a matter of preferences, because of course I have hobbies that involve creation. I've always been the type to analyze, because I like systems.

*

My hair is turning back to its regular color. This makes me happy. Goodbye white hair!

Signed, Cagey.

Day 2. (2.9.21)

I want to grow my bangs out but I already cut my hair yesterday. I woke up pretty early (like, 2:30 early). It's already 5:24, so I should take a small nap and afterwards I should make eggs. Eggs are my favorite.

*

I decided I actually enjoy wearing face-masks. I didn't want to go to school today, but face-masks makes things easier. Being invisible isn't enough. I packed a powerade with me. Turns out we have more than dozens of packs of powerade, so I went ahead and put 4 of them in the fridge. Some of them won't open, and I'm not strong enough. I really wanted a yellow powerade but I could only open the blue one. It's okay, because I'll at least have something sweet since we're still out of ice cream. I want to sleep.

*

My stomach hurts. I don't eat anything but fast food, and I've been skipping cafeteria lunch for three years because I don't know where to go and I try to go days without talking to anyone I hate, including the lunch ladies. It feels like a hot bubbly liquid with sharp metal shards is running through my entrails...

I'm still happy. I went through the entire day with half of my cell phone battery to spare, and I listened to Yume Nikki & Castle Crashers OST all day long. I also took a test, but it made me nervous because all the answer choices lined up two to five times each letter. I hope I see Pongbo when I get back home.

*

I didn't see Pongbo. I played Friday Night Funkin' for 2 hours. It was good.

Signed, Cagey.

Day 1. (2.8.21)

I didn't go to school today, and neither was I very productive. I actually stayed up the entire night and slept until it was the afternoon. I could've written this earlier, but my phone was dead and I didn't feel like going to my office to write anything. The leather chair is starting to mold itself around my body, and it doesn't have any of the same cushion that it did last year. Mom got a cover for it because the leather was starting to flake off from the arms and spread under the mat, but it doesn't really change anything. My back hurts the same. I'm also out of ice cream. Maybe Mom will get some more.

Signed, Cagey.

Journal Introduction. (2.7.21)

It felt right to create a journal to record my thoughts. It's definitely better than dumping my activity in the world with the rest of the mind syrup on my blog. I don't want to think too hard just for personal thoughts like I have to when conveying a message for my blog readers. Besides, bottling myself up because I'm worried about repetition in a blog doesn't sit right with me. My journal can just be mine.

Signed, Cagey.

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