'Well, fuck dem, dawg! They don't know what it's like in my head!'

I've kept two on-line diaries here on diaryland and two notebooks since this whole shit about me goin' nuts started; helps me keep control of all this. Grizzly likes to write, makes us feel better.

Our mother thinks it's all a loada bullshit, too. And the symptoms I get? Accelerated heartbeat, dizzy spells and painless headaches? Well, that's probably that diabetes coming down the gene pool. I should go to a doctor, she says.

Dawg, I'm fuckin' 20 years old. I don't even like sweets. Diabetes my ASS!

I think this is all Marco's fault. Really, it is. Think about shit for a second: my whole life was fallin' apart and then - BAM! - he dies. Is that what you'd call a friend? Damn bastard can't even be there for me when I need it most. NOOOOooo... He's gotta go get his ass killed in a car accident. And for what? A fuckin' rock concert?!

It's Dud's fault too, for leaving. The bitch. Why'd she haf'ta go off to war? Who gives a shit about this country anyway? It's the National FUCKIN' Guard, for cryin' out loud! Fuckin' military. And then she had to send me that damn book to freak the fuck outta me. She knew I'd hit rock bottom. She knew I'd already started showing signs of Dissasosiative Identity Disorder, after my heavy depression. Ignorance is bliss, ya know? So why send me a book that explains what the fuck it is I have going on in my brain and even gives symptoms that match mine?

AAARRRGGH!!!! I could scream, y'know?

And then I'm pissed off at Maria. If anything, she's an even bigger bitch than my sister. I could strangle her. I think I will.

And we would too, you know, if there weren't the rest of us to hold Piojo and Ninja back.

Do you people out there know, TRULY know, just how fucked up I am in the head? Apparantly not. 'Cause if you did, you'd run away screaming, and we'd be in jail. I collect weapons. I have nunchukus, brass knuckles with spikes on 'em, a mace club, sharp throwing stars, and even a samurai sword. I also have a crossbow. A working crossbow. I almost went and shot the neighbor's dog after the piece of shit mutt killed my cat.

And then there's my pride and joy: my hunting knife. I bought it from a sweet old lady that sells western wear and deadly blades of all kinds. I keep it hanging from the head of my bed with a strip of leather. Sometimes I sleep with it clentched in my fist. That shit is sharp as fuck. Just a simple caress of the blade will cut your finger open. Just ask our cousin. A scalpel wouldn't compare to it. It cuts through wood, hard plastic and some soft metals. I love that thing.