-glances at his warning post just because he happens to be in here.-
-notices that decade and decayed are now the same word.-
... yeah.
screw it. too lazy to fix it.

The fact that I don't feel like deleting that all together bothers me a bit, but I think I'm just being cautious. After all, nothing has provoked me to the point where I have to look at it yet.
Then again, my actions as of late aren't encouraging either way.

This isn't a part of those actions, but I shall share because I'm stupid.

Self mutilation is such a bizarre form of entertainment, eh?
I'm not entirely sure what provoked a sudden fit of rage today, but I got... pissed.
Not just a little pissed.
Try-to-punch-down-a-mountain pissed.
I don't really care for the childish act of punching holes into the walls. Even if I don't actually punch a hole in the wall, if I end up denting it, it's still a bother. If nothing else, I can't be bothered to clean the blood off the wall if I scrape my knuckles open.

Today I decided to punch a sharp surfaced boulder the size of a three story building until the front skin of every one of my fingers had been scraped into non-existence. This is particularly childish considering the fact that punching in such a way where anything but your knuckle hit the surface is entirely idiotic and counter-productive.

Yes, I'm more annoyed by me not following proper fist-making and punching procedures than I am by my random act of self-violence. Weird things bug me. Shaddup.

It's actually... interesting, watching my figures heal. They've stopped bleeding - I wouldn't be typing otherwise, because trying to get blood out from under keyboard keys is far too tedious and time-consuming of a task for me to want to partake in. However, I can still see some of the flesh under the dried blood, which is great fun.

... Holy crap, typing right now makes my fingers itchy as hell. Not to mention that they're a bit stiff, so expect more stupid typos.

"Why do I have so many scars on my fingers?" Daniel likes to ask himself when he's staring at his too-lazy-to-type-out-reports-when-he-should-be fingers.
-snort-
I'm rough with my hands to begin with, but this is just plain childish.

What shall I be doing tomorrow?
Why, I shall be happily dipping my scraped raw fingers into bleach and other acid-related cleaning substances.
I shall also be working with heavy wood, hammers, nails, saws, and other things that require my hands to partake in hard labor as I help build a cozy, simple cabin. [ I despise anything plumbing related now, by the way. I hope toilets go to heaven when the "Rapture" comes, so I don't have to deal with them ever again. Force people to shit in a bucket, and let's call it a day. ]

Hm.
I'm probably going to have to wear gloves when I'm at the cabin sight to hide my hands. I'll have to see if my leather gloves need to be softened again. Probably, considering I'm not very considerate of their condition for the most part.

My cleaning partner is inattentive to their own job as it is, so as long as I can hide them for the first four or five minutes, I'm fairly sure they won't notice a thing.


Johnny-boy and I seem to be "buddies" again. By that, I mean that I decided to pick up a game he introduced me to a long time ago again to kill time - and apparently annoy myself with, it seems - and he seems to have noticed. Since he seems to still play it, and he noticed me playing it, he now wants to hang out again. Yes, this is how most guy relationships work. If we can do a single activity together for an hour or two once or twice every other month, we're considered friends. I quite like it, really. There really isn't any awkwardness or grudges in a relationship that lives and dies based purely on whether or not people still do a certain activity.

Hm.
Destroyed fingers.
Will be doing manual labor Saturday that is normally designed to relieve stress, but will now be a fun game of seeing how much I can punish myself for being retarded.
John and I are apparently buds again. As long as he doesn't try to take me to the mall to stare at women who would rather pour sulfuric acid into their eyes than be in the same building, I think I can deal with that.

Yeah.
I hope everyone is doing well, though from the small snippet involving no information that I got from Teresa, it doesn't seem so.

No, I probably won't be explaining anything else. You know the drill.

Without Wax,
Sir Prick