Dear Diary, John wrote, then paused and chewed on the end of his pen. Today, I stold Rodney's pudding. He called me a pack-humping army grunt with the brains of a tricerotops. Why must he malign my true love for him, which I cannot express in any way but pudding-stealing? Damn my inability to be emotionally honest with those I long for! Am I doomed to be lonely forever, with only stolen pudding to comfort me? Oh, it's 3:15, time for my daily cutting.

John put his pen down and shrugged into his black hooded sweatshirt, pulling it down low over his eyes as he shuffled into his bathroom to wash the pain away with his blood.

(I HOPE YOU KNOW I HATE MYSELF NOW. Also, my icon keywords? never more appropriate than at this moment.)