While I enjoy the number three, something tonight made me go for eleven. Again, no reason and no trigger. I just stared at my arm and played chicken with the stream of blood inching towards my sweater. The blood won and I've ruined another sock.

You know what, though? I think this sudden rise of self-inflicted bullshit does have a reason. Well, besides me being a complete fucking asshole who might as well carve NIN into my ankle cuz that's how much of a stupid fucking angsty teenager I am.

I think the reason is restlessness. Like, I can't keep my hands or my heart still and maybe this will help? I don't know. I can't connect feeling restless with self-injury on a psychological level. It's not like I'm upset and can't figure out how to show my emotions without staining perfectly fine socks. I just really want to go somewhere and I don't know where that place is or even if it exists.

Jerkface (who, for some reason, has forgotten how to call me and we probably wouldn't talk for months if I didn't call him) got a letter from me a couple days ago kind of detailing this state of mind. I told him that all I've wanted to do lately is explore and I can't get train tracks and abandoned factories out of my head. I said I just want to move, move, move and discover things.

I don't know. This doesn't make sense.

Oh, speaking of restlessness and being stupid, I've decided that I'm going to New York for the three year anniversary of K's death. Actually, I realized that it would be a bad idea for me to stay here and maybe I should do something about that instead of just shrugging and accepting and waiting for it all to explode.

Anyway, this sucks. Let's talk about bunnies.

I got a new bunny. Her name is Oreo and she's a dwarf. I did not name her Oreo, but that's what her previous owner called her and she hasn't been responding to Hydrox or Stinky, so I guess we're stuck. I'll probably take a picture of her later and maybe post them with pictures of my 24 pound bunny and my magic bunny. Bunnies are fucking nice.

The duckling has a nest with eight eggs in my parent's closet. I was rambling about baby ducks a couple days ago cuz I saw a couple at the flea market and it physically hurt me to walk away. She says that we'll have baby ducks soon and I'm like, how? Well, Howie is a boy, she said. And I'm like HA HA HA. Like Howie would do that. He loves chickens, Mom. And then I was like...what if? What if we end up with eight baby ducks with poofy things on their heads and an obsessive love of chickens? Holy fuck.

Then I remembered that Howie can't make babies because he is a mutant. Or mixed breed. Whatever. There's some kind of formula that Howie falls into and, because of that, he's infertile. Does that make sense? Eh.

My head kinda hurts.

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