I make no sense, I know. I think sometimes its better not to think about it. But I get the feeling that perhaps who I am is a base, disgusting, creature that is not worth the air she breathes (which would explain why I am constantly trying to justify my existence based on the slight chance that people might actually want me around, because to some degree I make them happy). Really, I'm not depressed. This is me in my rawest form.
I am truly pleased with myself for going out of my way to invade people's lives. I know that perhaps my methods are unorthodox and incomprehensible, but I also know that I make people feel alive, that I too, am a threat. Living dangerously close to something that could be the end of the world as my subjects have known it: this is what I do for people. It makes me happy that I can offer this kind of escapism, even if most people cannot appreciate it for what it is worth. And yes, I do recognize that I am too much.
My level of intensity is frightening even for me. I did not ask to be this way. I am still struggling with this part of me that on the exterior looks like a magnificent gift that I should be thankful for, but that is really nothing more than an incredibly heavy burden.
So, that's what's new...which isn't new at all, really.