The Art of Teenage Angst (Cecil's Secret Journal)

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The Art of Teenage Angst (Cecil's Secret Journal)

Post  Cecil Sharpe on Thu Dec 22, 2011 5:38 am



I hate it here.
    I hate it here.
      I hate it here.
        I HATE IT HERE!


It's... Thursday. December whatever whatever. It's supposed to be Christmas soon. I hope everyone here chokes to death on the pennies in the Christmas pudding.

      Everyone here is INSANE!


Today they made me go to group therapy. Some kind of artsy-fartsy Kumbaya head-shrinking exercise. We had to draw something we liked and then talk about it. I couldn't draw anything. The only thing I like is my room in my home, with my own bathroom and my own stuff.

    And HE was there.
I hope he dies in a fire. A really slow-burning, smokeless fire. He won't leave me alone! I've tried running away! I've tried hiding from him! But he finds me. Every day. We sleep in the same room! How am I supposed to get out of this place if he is tormenting me!? I don't want him. I don't want it! I swear I don't! I Don't! I know I'm sick in the head now. I know I'm a freak. I don't want it but he... I can't help it. I can't! I can't help it! And no-one's helping me! No-one's fixing it! What the fuck is wrong with me!?

All of my roommates are homicidal maniacs!
I want to go home! I just want to go HOME!

I think I'm in hell. They stuck me in here to try and fix me and it's like they threw a steak into a pack of ravenous wolves! I can't help myself! Why isn't anyone fixing it!? I just want someone to make it stop, so I can tell HIM to go fuck himself. I want him to leave me alone!

    I feel sick.
      He makes me feel sick. What he's done. What he keeps doing.
        I don't know how much more I can take...
Someone make it stop! I can't talk about it though. I can't tell anyone, or he'll tell everyone about me. He'll tell them about how I can't help it... About how it makes me...


Dear Father Christmas,

Get me out of this place. That's all I want. I just want my own bed, my standing piano, my bathroom. I promise I'll never be bad again as long as I live if you just GET ME OUT OF HERE! I know you're not real though. I know no-one's coming for me, because I'm a dirty little secret. They don't want me back at home. I don't want them either. I wish I'd never been born.

~Cecil

At least he's in seclusion for now. I hope he rots there forever and ever and ever. I hope he dies!

Happy Fucking Christmas.


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Cecil Sharpe

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Re: The Art of Teenage Angst (Cecil's Secret Journal)

Post  Cecil Sharpe on Wed Dec 28, 2011 5:45 am




F. M. L.

I think I've just been... abandoned here. Like a dirty little secret. Mum sent a Christmas package like nothing was wrong, like I was just in boarding school, and she totally ignored my letter home. She must have, because no-one's come for me yet. Maybe they won't get the chance to. Maybe I'll be dead before then, murdered in my bed, laying dissected on a blood soaked mattress on the top bunk. He'd probably like that too. It would freak everyone else out. Or maybe it wouldn't because they're all freaks too!

And I got my nose broken, and my head split open. Happy Christmas. Maybe it would've been a Happy Christmas if it wasn't him though. If it was someone else, somewhere else. I wouldn't have minded. I'd let someone else rip me to shreds if they wanted to, if they just weren't him. He makes me hate everything and everyone and myself. Most of all myself. Because it's my fault. It's because I'm fucked up in the head.

    But I don't belong here. With the crazies. The real crazies.

      I have no-one to talk to!

I can't tell anyone, and who's going to listen anyway? No-one cares. No-one's watching. All they want to do is make sure I do my chores and my school work and they don't care about anything else!

I wonder if that other boy snitched...

He's probably going to really murder me now. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he did. I'd almost rather that than have to live here, with this... this... yuck. I don't know how to describe it. I feel so wrong all over and inside, in my stomach, in my head. I feel like he's always in there, poisoning everything, staining it. I feel dirty, like I can't scrub it off, like he's always watching me or something, or thinking about me. I don't wanna know what's inside his head.

    I just want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home!

But they don't want me there any more. I don't know what I'm going to do now. I want to run away but i don't have anywhere else to go to, and if I stay here I think I'll lose it. I met a new doctor and he said I could hang out in his office, but he's a shrink and he'll just see how fucked up I am in the head, and then I'll never get out. They could at least give me meds that stop me from caring about anything, but they don't. They don't give me anything. I hate them. I hate everything.


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