j'aurais jamais dû écrire ce bloody machin sur le mémoire, très vrai au demeurant, j'ai maintenant de bloody hallucinations and desires. Sauf que comme je suis une adulte maintenant, je n'ai plus le droit de faire quoi que ce soit avec. Merde de merde.
Ma soeur est là, je prends l'air, mais il y a des reflux dans la journée vers de grands besoins de fermeture.
Expo nulle après 35 mn de queue au mauvais endroit à la villa de mademoiselle B., on est rentrées et on n'a pas compris. Serveur imbuvable au resto, engueulade, puis j'envoie chier impulsivement M. par exaspération et sentiment d'agression généralisée. Grrr. Grrrr. Don't come too close. Bloody moment. Je suis indigne de quoi que ce soit. Jesus must hate me. I don't get what He wants from me (except writing mon mémoire and bleeding to death, striving for everything. I shall do so, then).

You'll be happy to know (or not know) that i lost you for nothing
but maybe you left 'cause i already didn't have anything left
so i'm experimenting now the fact that I was the one who didn't have anything, 'cuz now that I have only what comes from myself I don't have anything. So empty. still so tired. I was so by myself, then. I'm so sorry.

Besides,

Wrinting this mémoire is like trying to splash myself on a painting made with my own blood, splashing it widely to reach wider, failing in recognizing or discovering anything in it, trying harder. and the wider it gets the more it feels bloody painfull. and the more it fails. i'm not reaching anything and i'm bleeding to death. En tout cas it's nothing of a mémoire. it's not even beautifull, it's not even myself.