The looming prospect of the next day, of tomorrow, of the morning after repulses me. It just means another day, another long dreadful day of the same old shit. Nothing changes. This fucking consistency – the only fucking consistency in my life – is toxic; it’s fucking poison. Why do I even bother? The fact that I put in however bit of energy into trying repulses me. I put on a mask with a vapid smile on it, I fix my hair, I fix my make-up, and I pick an outfit. What for? For the idiocy of everyday life! To satiate my craving for acceptance from fucking strangers! I can’t, I am not supposed to say no. I can’t say no. I can’t say no, I don’t want to do this. No, this isn’t me. No, I just need you. No, I just want you to accept me. No, I just want you to see me. No, I just want you to hear me. No, I just want you to fucking hold me. I can’t. No one can. You can’t show that side of you, not a single molecule of weakness is to be seen by anyone. So tomorrow, I will duly put on my mask; try to hide my feelings, my depression, my thoughts, and my words. I will smile and nod at the things he says, I will laugh at correct intervals, stick in a few witty comebacks whenever necessary – just so he knows I’m present – and I will kiss him when I feel like I’m about to break down and say something. So tomorrow, I will try. Again.