Poor twisted child, so ugly, so ugly; the poor twisted child, oh hug me, oh hug me

This bitterness is killing me. It is. You don't know how it feels to hurt like this. You don't. I would kill myself if I didn't have so many important things to do. Stuff like writing books and taking out the garbage.

I want somebody, anybody to love me. But it's not happening. Also, nowadays I only discuss embarrassing things. I mean truly embarrassing things. I have this project. I hope that this is okay with you.

Have sex with me. You won't find it satisfying, and you will feel sorry for me and for yourself, but you should give it a try.

"The part of the brain that interprets sexual arousal is the same area that interprets other arousal stimuli such as fear, and anger. This is actually where the theory of make-up sex comes from, the idea that the brain accidentally misinterprets one type of arousal, such as anger, for sexual arousal. So while the person is really upset, they feel aroused because the brain interpreted the arousal as sexual." 

That explains something. Jesus, I'm so fucking horny angry. I completely understand how Pekka-Eric Auvinen felt when he decided to go and kill people. I don't understand why he did what he did, but I do understand how he felt when he decided to do it. There's a big difference. Bad things happen to good people. Personally, I find it even more unbearable that GOOD THINGS HAPPEN TO BAD PEOPLE.

Seriously, there is nothing wrong with me. I'm a healthy, able person. But unfortunately I'm quite ugly. Am I ugly? So they say. With their eyes. This is a fact. But I could also lack arms and legs and a head and the whole lower body.

I've been very insecure lately.

I've become pretty good at jamesdeanism. But nobody gives a fuck, because people know too little about James Dean to get the joke. Fuck you. You should feel ashamed of yourselves. Fuck you for everything.

I have this project that I'll do my best to be fucking horrible for a few days. Hopefully it'll help, babe. It's much more fun than sadness.

Fame will be my revenge. I am a genius, and this is another embarrassing fact. It's all I have, it's always been this way, and it's a rather huge thing, but it isn't making me happy. Genius will never make you happy, but it can give others the illusion that you're capable of finding exceptional happiness, and that's what I want. I want others to think that I found something better. I want them to feel horrible. Right now I really don't care what you're going to think about this. One day the essence of my art will be total honesty. I will spend the coming years searching for the courage to become the person that I am. I've already begun.

All this will kill me. But everybody dies. You will die too, and that makes me so happy. I have no idea who I'm talking to.

Bitch, you'd be fucked up too.

Fuck you. I like Cat Power. They say she's insane, I hope that it's true. You should watch this. Fuck you for everything. You are a horrible person for reading this and you should go to Hell and stay there for 10 minutes.



I'm going through some old pictures, and turns out I'd left pictures of the actual Mozzy-Moz in my camera:

By the way. What is it really about; really changing the world, as an artist or scientist or anything? It is about disagreeing with your friends. Anyway, I also found a picture of me:

Did you really think that is me? Of course it's not me. Are you blind? It's clearly someone completely else. I have no idea who that is. Stop thinking that it's me, stupid.

Next, something troubling. This is a picture of me from a million years ago:

It's been many years and I am actually a child in that photo. Or an almost-child. A very fabulous child, I know. But anyway, now I am an "adult". What's tragic is that I still look exactly like that. (Well, maybe not exactly.) However, it should be noted that one of my dreams is to one day be a professional boxer whose most interesting trait is a sad, worried face that never goes away.