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I think I’m going insane. I really do. I have to put up a mask when I talk to other people now. I have to pretend I’m happy, and joyous, and that there is nothing wrong in my life. But inside, I’m dead.

The other night there was a missing child alert on TV, and all I could think about was how it was interrupting my TV show. I didn’t give a shit about the little girl. And I didn’t feel bad about not caring at all.

I’ve been reading a book lately a few times over. During the scenes of extreme violence and gore, I get somewhat aroused. The juxtaposition of sex and murder excites me. And occasionally I think about rape and get off.

I spend my days at school thinking about murdering my classmates. I don’t think I’d do it, but I think about all the different ways I could kill them and what it would look like. I picture all the blood in my head.

I’m an almost compulsive lier. I’m not even sure what the real me is anymore. I can’t tell anyone how I really feel or think. I just play the part that’s expected of me, and my friends and family go about their stupid, ignorant lives.

And the worse thing of all? After all of that, I know that what I am is wrong, but… I just don’t care.