Dear everybody,

I'm on a high.

No, I'm not under any influence.

Yet.

But, if there's a need to celebrate, then let's toast to it.

I'm really happy, and optimistic.

Things may actually going in a right direction for once.

You all should be too.

Let's hope these feelings stay gold.

Love,

Max

Dear people,

I'm losing people to write my notes to.

I also have a headache. Fuck this.

Few things. Weezer's "El Scorcho" perfectly defines certain aspects of my life.

I have been having awful insomnia for the past 2-3 weeks now. Maybe it's because Absolutepunk.net. Maybe it's because David thinks the Libertines are above everything. Who knows. I don't go to bed till at least 3 in the morning, and I'm up around 9am.

I feel like complete shit. I'm losing myself for no reason. I need to really get my shit together.

I need to man up and say "I like you".

The voice in my head says "she's not interested. move along, bub. she doesn't want to talk to a sad fat sorry kid like yourself".

I need to tell myself I'm awesome.

I need to look in the mirror and like what I see.

I need to schedule a doctors appointment to get my lapband filled.

I need a lapband support group meeting.

I need a courtesy swipe and a bullet to the brain plz kthx.

I need a second job lined up for me.

I need to get myself out of shoprite before I get fired for stealing sushi or yelling at customers.

Love,

Max.

Dear Whoever finds this blog,

It's been a solid two months since I've written anything.

I'm not the fool I once was, but I'm not the man I'll be.

Seriously, a lot of things about me and my character have changed since May.

But I'm still a fool. I'm an immature teenager. I'm extremely unreliable. You need me to do something? You best remind me often. You want to hang out? Well, I want to hang out too, only with certain people. Some people I just don't want a party. Does that make sense? It probably doesn't at all. There are others I want to hang out, but I have anxiety over certain things.

There are a lot of things about me you don't know anything about. Things you wouldn't understand. Things you couldn't understand. Things you shouldn't understand. You don't want to get mixed up with a guy like me.

I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

But in all seriousness.

There are some things I feel as if I should tell you, or somebody, to let you know who I've become. I've finally come to accept a few things.

I have been struggling with depression for almost 6 years now. I need to get help, or else things will eventually get worse. I've been in denial about it this whole time, playing it off as me just being a sad, fat, lonely kid going through his teenage years. Some days I'm fine. Somedays, I'm extremely happy. Those rare days are so nice, to just be genuinely happy. But at least 95%, I'm upset. I'm upset that I'm overweight. I had freakin' Lap Band surgery, and i'm sitting here like a fat fucking slob. I gross myself out. I need a workout buddy. I'm upset that I've still never kissed a girl. I'm fucking 19, and even when intoxicated, I can't fucking do it. It eats at me. Some people I know complain about breaking up with their girlfriend/boyfriend. Get over it. You at least had somebody. I've never had anybody. I'm upset about my job. I fucking hate shop rite. Somedays I just want to climb over the register and punch old bitches in the face for not bagging their $400 worth of groceries, steal a pack of sushi, call all my bosses old fat cunts, and then do donuts in the parking lot. If I'm going out, I'm going out in style. I'm upset, so I started smoking cigarettes. Why? No idea. Wanted to try it. I liked the way the menthol tasted, and how it really calmed me down when I was stressed out. My friends telling me to quit stressed me out more, so I would chain smoke more out of spit. But, I have decided to stop for the time being.

Also, the last thing that upsets me is Petey.

Petey was our orange kitty. He was a fiesty little fucker, but incredibly loving at the same time. About 4 weeks ago, he ran away. I just want to know if he's okay, and if his body hasn't been scraped up at the side of the road where pavement meets sidewalk.

Mom, if you read this, we need to talk.

Love,

Max.