I don't think anyone reads this shit anymore. So I can just as well go ahead and write whatever is on my mind. Just get it off my head.

Things are the way they have always been. No doubt, the climate changes and I listen to different music, but the subjects, the topics- they're all the same. I thought I had passed the phase of ugly puberty, where everything is hell and you feel unloved and you want to kill yourself or at least dye your hair black and listen to Dashboard Confessional. But I haven't. I haven't passed anything. I'm still there, same old, same old.

Take this, for example: I'm mad. I'm fucking disappointed and I am putting all the blame on one person, yet again, as always. I sit here and wait for a phone call, all day and all night long. I can hardly do anything else, because fuck knows how cold my brain's gonna freeze if I miss it. So I wait. And I keep waiting. And it's unlike anything I've ever felt, this sheer disappointment, this anger and the unfuckingbelievable pain that is in my heart. Because of that one person that is just not here, and not calling.

And not showing up when they promise to. Meanwhile, I'm here and thinking of them and making them mixtapes and looking forward to the next time we'll see each other, and I'm dreaming of them and I'm trying not to think about how it is when we used to .... do whatever together, and I'm fucking doing their homework and what I get in return is nothing. By all means, everyone with an IQ higher than the retardation limit would now pack their things and leave this crappy relationship, but of course, I'm still here, and I'm not letting it die. And that's why I'm so mad, anyway. It's because I'm letting everyone abuse me as usual, and I'm being nice because I'm the most emotional piece of shit.

So I try to be cold, to be rejecting, but so what? Either they'll be pissed at me - and that'd hurt - or they wouldn't care enough to bother. I know we're friends, but it's always an individual conception of things. I'm head over heels. They're just a little interested. Does it hurt to knows this? Yes, it does. It hurts a lot. Can I do anything about it? I try.

And again, the ultimate resolution follows: I hate people. I have lost hope in the human kind. I don't want to have friends anymore. I want to be distanced. I want to be away.

I feel like it's enough right now.

I've never, ever in my life been interested in electronic music. Not a little bit. Used to hate techno, house, all that stuff just got on my nerves. Give me some guitars, some drums, the pop, the rock- I'd even go with the Hip Hop if it wasn't so bad most of the time.

But Electro just wasn't my case.

And now, look there what happened: 30% of songs on my Itunes library are electro. I never knew how good this stuff could be, especially the electroclash/clashi2trashi stuff. The Knife, for instance, is one of the most genius bands I've ever heard.

The best thing is that I can now discover a whole new genre, without stumbling upon old stuff that I've already heard a dozen and two times before. Now I don't need to go fishing for new bands that no-one knows yet- it's all there for me, waiting to be unpacked, songs and even more songs that I haven't heard yet.

The bands that I've grown to like: The Knife, LCD Soundsystem, Fischerspooner, Fairmont, Justice, Klee, KMFDM, Lexy & K-Paul... great stuff there.
And many more. It's great. Feels like orgasm.

Oh and, still- the best song I've heard in a while is no electro. It's called Oh Horatio by Tiger Lou and I have to cry every time I listen to it.

Oh, winter depression! Nothing like sitting at home alone, waiting for the cool people (a.k.a red-assed baboons a.k.a my so-called friends) to call me up and invite me to- well, to do whatever it is!

No, nope- instead of doing that funky stuff I sit at home, sort out my Itunes library, find new music and cry to it. I've never felt so dearly Emo. It's like I invented MySpace again: this time, we cut down the road, not across!

Seriously though, it's two days to my winter vacation and all I can think of is how cool school is. It sure is stressful, but at least I get to see some people. Or that person. Sometimes it's only about that person. And she's what's making me feel so sick, to sum it all up. No one else can cheer me up but her. Or that's what it feels like.

But before we sink into my deeply hurt soul, fellow readers (or whoever's left here, anyway), let us just take a minute to cry on my desperate state of sexual frustration.
...

Great. That felt good.

Now, there are many days to come yet where I'll be lonely and without anyone here to offer me a gentle pad on the shoulders when it seems as if no one gets me in this world. I should be sad about it, shouldn't I?

But NO! Behold! I will simply take drugs, won't I.
Ah God, who am I kidding here. I suck, people. And I need real friends.

I hate not having a group of friends like every other decent person in this world. I have alot of friends, yeah. Many people I know. But I don't have an actual group of friends. No clique. I used to hate them. Now I miss them. And I can't get over it. And it kills me because I'm lonely.

My life is a stretched out yawn in slo-mo right now. I have made it my top priority to neglect everything important, postpone deadlines and basically being the perfect procrastinator by watching random shows on alluc.org. My current obsession is Scrubs. I love Scrubs. I want to marry Zack Braff. Please now.

School is getting worse. Haleluja. I have found the best reason to drop out: I suck. I still haven't decided yet if that's really the best option to go for. First I have to make sure I'm getting that "Service Lady" job in Prague. I heard they work in cheap "motels" to make the stay for their "guests" as "convenient" as possible, despite the lack of TV's or mini bars. I think that is a good system.

I have found a girl that seems to be nice and cool to hang out with. Although I really much like her, I don't feel attracted to her at all. At least I don't think about how making out with her will be. I also don't think that I'd stand any chance in the world even if I was. That kind of makes me happy. We frequent some classes together, but she lives far away from here. Her drive to school takes her at least half an hour. That sucks.

Speaking of driving, I drive really good nowadays. I wish I had my own car. I'd really like the Porsche Cayenne. I figured my best chance to get one is to either go with the trading scheme or win it at the McDonalds monopoly contest. I couldn't trade my paperclip for even a pen, so I decided to stick with the fast food. You can see me at my local franchise every day at least once eating a super size menu in the hopes to get the right stickers. It's a drag and it's expensive, but it's alot of fun. The obvious consequence of getting fat can be neglected. I'm not having sex, anyway.

That is the main reason for my currently very sour attitude. Because of my masturbation-denial problem (I can't masturbate more than every other week because I'm lazy and hate thinking of sex which only gets me frustrated) I am very horny. At the sight of any good looking young man I will get nervous and shaky. Apparently, that is what drives them away.

So I've decided to call it an abstinence until my will is broken. This way it will look as if I've chosen that path of nonsexual encounters. Please don't pity me. I CHOSE TO BE LIKE THAT.

My pants are torn up and I look like a hobo. The RHCP concert rocked. I am in love with John Frusciante. My friends suck dick, but I really dig them nonetheless. I've smoked at least a cigarette every day since last year. I've lost a minimum of 250 € with poker ever since I started playing, and won maybe a total amount of 60 bucks. I want to go clubbing but never get around to. I enjoy staying at home and trying to break my top score in Minesweeper.

This is a cry for help.

PS: That dude I wrote about the other day, H.? He was in the newspapers on Thursday. Actually, there was a phantom sketch. Police were looking for a young man with that face, and it was obviously him, for armed robbery. The store is allegedly robbed (but I'm pretty sure it was him) is only a couple of meters next to where he lives. For all I know, the owner of that gift store could be his mother's best friend. I guess he's going to end in jail before he's dead. I'm too apathetic to feel anything right now. Please envy me.

Alright fuck it. Almost four months of sexual abstinence, last time being unsatisfying and in AUGUST, is definitely too much. It merely proved that I'm a perverted, nympho slut with no shame at all.

I want to get laid and I don't care who does it. (And it's really about time the new L Word Season starts. I need my lesbian fill of the year).

Man, I just re-read the gibberish about my past again and I find it's a vomit of words, and I can't help but pity everyone who read that crap. I mean, not the content- the content is truthful and sincere as can be. But the style, the writing- lack of creativity or hey, talent, anyone?

I'm a writer sort of person. Not necessarily successful and also, nobody wants to really read what I write for the sake of my genius, but still I'm a writer. When I write for myself, say when I'm bored or traumatized by something, it usually turns out really good. But I can't share because it will most likely contain either a weird sexual fetish that is regarded as perverted by everyone I know, or it's a well-kept secret. The so called skeleton in the closet. These things I burn or trash as soon as I'm over it, and then write a post about how sad and depressed I am without giving any proper reason. And since I'll have given all the fuel into secret stuff I write, my posts are sullen and dull.

Not that I really care- I mean, sure, it's cool when people know what's going on in your head and take part of it and tell you their opinions- but I don't force anyone into reading this, mainly for the fact that I know I'm really no stunner.

Still, considering myself a writer, I'll be pissed off about blogging or writing anything at all that others can read. That's why I'll never be able to publish a book or write something else than short posts. It's because the really interesting thing (at least I think they are interesting) are my weaknesses, and I hate to share those... except lousy stories from the past, but those will turn out gruesome to anyone who likes to read a good novel because I write too emotionally to keep an order of things. No structure, no style, and since I'm no native English speaker also lack of vocabulary. Especially lack of vocabulary.

That's why I've taken on filler words such as "like", "dude", "man" or different phrases like "oh my god", "you know", "I mean"- useless. Ultimately, I suck. But you know what, I'm not going to dig further here- I'll just go and write it down on a sheet of paper that I'll tear up right afterwards. And yet, I'll feel better.

Alright, so this is going to be tough for those who feel obliged to read everything I write- please bear with me, it's the most boring story ever, but I seriously have to get it out of my system before it eats my head up completely.

I have to start right at the beginning. When I got to 7th grade, I was stuck into the coolest class of my school. We had people of every kind- the jerks, the potheads, the geeks (me included) and the shy people. I'm sure there were a hell more categories, but this'll do to sum it up. I wasn't really a geek, but it happened that I was the only one capable of languages, and maths wasn't so hard back then. I got all the good grades, and almost everyone around me failed.

I was also one of the youngest in class, next to a couple others. I was probably also the only one that thought that pot was boring. Why the hassle when there's acid? Exactly my attitude. Although, to clear things up, I was only an occasional drug-user back then. Not the junkie I was yet to become.

The potheads in my class were actually 8th graders who had failed the required classes and did an extra 7th. It's a basic school principle here, but to cut to the chase, they were simply set back to 7th grade as they didn't make it. They smoked joints and drank alcohol like nobody's business, which explains their grades in school. And they were the bomb, I mean, people looked up to them- greasy hair, dirty clothes, skateboards, oh man were they hot. I never fell for them that way because I considered them ugly and had begun masturbating to women, but hey, don't judge me, I was only a kid (Kidding. I still do it).

So in this class, there was this kid, let's call him H. This story is about him. I'm dedicating it to him because it's the basic example of what's so fucked up in our society, and it's what keeps me depressed every fucking day- and gives me hope to get on, all the time, every day and stop looking back. It's killing me because I was part of this game.

H. was the youngest in our class. He had ADD and everyone made fun of his uncoordinated, silly ways. He never listened and you had to shout his name up to 3 times for him to pay attention. You asked him a question and he almost fell apart stumbling to find the right words. He desperately tried to be cool and calm, but it was obvious that even the littlest differences in age could mean worlds: He was still a child at heart. I doubt he had even hit puberty at that time. And like all the other kids, he looked up to the cool guys.

The Potheads were eager to punish him for this devotion. They treated him like crap and laughed about him, but he didn't care as long as he was part of the group- which part he played, unimportant. They were his Disney land, and pot was his entrance fee.

One year later, I was pretty much at my low-point of drug use. I never told anyone, I was in hospital twice without anyone but one good friend knowing, my parents never talked to each other unless shouting and screaming and when I came home I went online pretending everything was fine, basically building up a second identity. Maybe I should mention all those people I lied and betrayed, tell them how sorry I am, but nothing could substitute the feeling of regret- I made it up to most people already, but the truth is, I am still devastated. Every now and then I'd let a word of truth slip out to my friends, wallow in self-pity, hate my life, especially my father, then drown again the next day in another dose of drug, all kinds of drugs. I'd never admit it, though, because I knew it was my weakness. I knew I couldn't, shouldn't do it.

I looked at all the other kids with disgust. Pot? Pot was my recreational phase from all the synthetic shit I pumped into my body. I didn't use it to get high, I used it to get down.

But still, I was in the same group of friends as H. We were a relatively large group of people, drug people, alcoholic people, stupid kids wanting out of this reality. H. had a hard time. We'd use him to get our pot, take his money, laugh about him, send him here, send him there. Get us beer, get us pot, move your ass- and he'd always come back because he had noone else. His family was too busy taking care of their newborn, his parents hating each other. Of course, I didn't know that back then. No one knew, he'd never had anyone to tell.

In 9th grade, I was still friends with these people. I was still smoking pot and I was still drinking alcohol, but things had become better. Every now and then I'd take a pill or snort a line- but it was minor shit.

In 10th grade, it started getting worse for me again- with all the bullshit at home and school being harder every day, I looked for a solution to my problems- and I found my boyfriend. A new group of friends. New interests, new problems. Well, things still sucked but at least I had some good loving and I didn't need the drugs to substitute that anymore (although I still smoked a joint every now and then and basically got drunk whenever I could).

But H.? He never made it out of there. Everyone around him started taking greater care of school. They were still Potheads, still assholes, but so what- they could deal. H. couldn't. He entered this whole thing as a kid- he developed a habit, an addiction, and by all means I can't tell you whether this addiction was to finally have some attention, or the drugs themselves. I'd vote for the first option if I had to.

And so it went on- my boyfriend broke up with me and I started the bad drugs again, ace, ecstacy- not telling anybody, as always, and not as bad as before and I had some control of it, but it put me in a really bad state of mind. My depression was vast, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat. I hated my school.
But things were different now. I wasn't a child anymore. I got myself back together, and although I'm still not completely over all these things, at least I don't even feel the urge to drink alcohol anymore.

H. lost his grip during 11th grade. We were still in the same class, but he hardly showed up. The Potheads split up, probably still got drunk and smoked shit all day, but they had enough will to continue school, to be responsible, to earn some money- basically deal with their lives like everyone else does. We now look back and call it "The rebellious old days"- aww, don't give me that crap, I know. It wasn't rebellious, it was stupid, and I'm the first one who'd tell you that.

But still, H. didn't see it that way. H. still wanted to prove how cool he is. Nevermind that everyone else already thought it was uncool, he continued trying. Continued smoking. And somehow, someway, I lost all touch to him. Only heard rumours every once in a while- he's selling now, or he's completely drunk again, or he's taking synthetic drugs now.

I didn't care. I was laughing along. What a stupid, stupid guy. But only now I do realize what happened.

He hardly showed up this year in classes. People started talking. Where is he? What is he doing? He wrote me a message the other day, "You weren't my friend, but you were not as bad as the rest of the pack. I just wanted to say goodbye, I'm going to die tomorrow".

I panicked. What the hell? He just can't go and.. do that, can he?
Shit, I really don't know how to tell this story.

We started IM'ing. I didn't convince him not to do it- in fact, I pushed him to do it. I said hey, look, get over it- do it or don't but don't bother me with this shit. Three weeks later, now, he's still alive, still talking to me. I visited him the other day- he has signed off from school, been to rehab, is drunk every day, his parents beat him up, he steals money, is sentenced for robbery, has no plan of his life, still wants to die, spends money on prostitutes, goes to stripclubs and look like your junkie-next-door.

He offered me coke, ace, ecs, I still don't know how I declined. I bought him a bottle of water, a pack of cigarettes, met him at home where I could witness the gruesome situation at home- wealthy parents that don't give a shit, H. high on whatever he's pumped into his veins, it killed me. What can you do about someone who's never learned to grow up? Who's stuck in a body of a 18 year old, but inside, is still a 7th grader?

It's really not his fault. He was a naive, nice boy. Not necessarily the man of your dreams, but a friend, with manners and morality. And hell is he intelligent. Now he reads from the bible, cites Jesus and calls everyone around him "his angels of sins". Waits for God to come and rescue him, and the next day he calls me up, crying, about how he's had a traumatizing dream- and the following three days he won't talk about anything else anymore. Traumatizing things.

Shit, I really don't know how to tell this story. It hurts me so much to see someone die this way. Die from the inside. Die from drugs, die from his so called friends to whom he always bounced back, out naivety, unknowingly of his own destiny. Scared of being along, scared of not getting enough attention. H. is not human anymore, he's just a shadow of a human being.

We all made it out of the jungle. All the other kids went by pretty well, some better and some worse. Even the best fall down sometimes, but they get up, and who didn't do shit when they were young?

But he was too young. And now these are the consequences. I give him another 2 years, max. If he makes it until then, it won't be a pleasure, and if he doesn't, if he really decides to kill himself, then everyone's going to remember him as the junkie, the jerk, the stupid silly naive shitty little boy that smelled.

I can only shake my head when I look back. What I would've done differently? I don't know. I'd tried to tell him once before, in 9th grade, that he was going down, steep, but he never wanted to hear that. I wanted to be the hero, the one that rescues him. But what do you do when you conclude that there's no other way out but suicide?

If I was him, I'd do it.