Running with Scissors

[He] believed that anger was the crux of mental illness. He believed that anger, unless it was expressed freely, would destroy a person . . . Anger was the ground hamburger of our existence. Its versatility was inspiring. There was Anger Turned Inward, Repressed Anger, Misguided Anger. There were Acts Made in Anger, Things Said in Anger and people who might very well die if they didn’t Face their Anger.

For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing happened and nothing is going to happen and you’re washing a glass in the sink and it breaks—accidentally—and punctures your skin. And then theirs is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.

Ours had become a seesaw relationship, and right now it was all saw.

I have all these things to worry about on top of [ ] school. It’s a wonder I’m even alive. Sometimes I think that. I think that I can’t believe I haven’t killed myself. But there’s something in me that just keeps going on. I think that it has something to do with tomorrow, that there’s always one, and that everything can change when it comes.

Our lives are an endless stretch of misery punctuated by processed fast foods and the occasional crisis or amusing curiosity.

That’s kind of how I felt. Sure, I would’ve liked for things to have been different. But¸ roll of the eyes, what can you do? Shrug.

I just finished a very interesting memoir that read like a novel. Augusten Burroughs’s childhood was very berserk and unreal, but it made me grateful for everything that I have, despite my own bouts with weirdness, the rainy weather outside and the questioning of my own thoughts. Above are a few lines (in chronological order) that kind of hit home or stood out. I’m a blogger, so I share with the world. Who has anything else [good] for me to read?