I just want to be happy. I have countless reasons to be happy. But in the end it's just me every **** night, every ******* night, alone. And empty. And I hate myself. I hate myself with every atom of my being. And I hate myself for hating myself. I'm playing with needles. That's not really a metaphor. I'm just watching droplets form on my skin. Because I doubt the plausibility of my own happiness. And I've always loved body art.