I decided that I shall stop broadcasting my problems. Or so, the ickle issues that I perceive as the root causes of my emoing, except to realise after sulking for the entire day (again) that they are once again excuses for mutilating my soul. I am The Evil herself. 

Writing about them here ought to do the trick, except that seeing the anger and pain being reflected in these tiny black alphabets make me feel that I'm doing myself a great injustice. I guess that's the irony of us emo people. No matter how much you want to get rid of all the misery, there is a warped sense of pride in their existence. 

I want to talk about it with selected people, not that I believe they will be able to advise me to make everything better, but because I kept telling myself that talking to them about it will somehow lift my spirits. Incidentally, some of them are directly involved in the issue as well. Okay, not some. Maybe a couple. But the thing is, why are they then tangled in these issues if I judge them to be like that? Admittedly, just talking to _ might very well just make my world a little brighter. Cheap thrills that come at an expensive price. Because I just know that the consequences would be devastating; the confusion, the misunderstandings, the fear. Yet, I kept making the same mistakes over and over again.