I should be pleased shouldn't I. I guess, in a way, I am. Slightly fewer scars. But then my thighs are so messed up already that frankly I'm never going to be able to have them out in public anyway. So really, it doesn't matter in the slightest what more I do to them. The thing is, I wasn't trying to give up or anything. That's always screwed up in the past, so why bother? But I was so ill last Tuesday, and then I got taken into hospital and had this operation, and I've had so much pain since... It hasn't been necessary. What kind of victory is that? It isn't one. It exhibits no kind of moral strength or anything like that. Mentally speaking, I might as well have been hurting myself every single day. That's how things actually are. Why do we let ourselves be defined by a time-span? I hate myself. And I've discovered that you guys here care a lot less about me than you might like to admit. If I died today, no-one here would notice. You wouldn't even wonder where I was. I'm not going to kill myself today, but I'm sitting here on my own now with my bag of tricks. Don't worry, I'm not going for the pills in my drawer, I don't even have the energy. But I'm going to sit here now and cut myself on my scarred-to-fuck thighs until I can't see any more skin. No-one will be home for about an hour and a half. I can have a fucking marvellous time.