I’ve been on a more-than-usual misery trip, and this led to me being depressed (more than usual) for quite some time, for no apparent reason. Okay, I actually ran out of black eyeliner, but do you really need a reason for misery?

So yeah, I was feeling sulkier than usual. And since I’ve never tried the arcane art of making oneself bleed, I decided to have a go at it. I grabbed a really sharp knife from the kitchen, hid in my room, and in the midst of the music of Panic! At the Disco, I gave my flesh a nice, stinging jab from the sharp edge of the knife.

And it hurt.

I know most people would say that the pain outside only dulls the pain inside, No. It hurt like hell, DtH. It hurt like hell. I screamed, woke up my parents who were sleeping in the next room, and begged them to rush me to the hospital to give me a Tetanus shot. After hours of begging, I finally made them take me to the E.R., only to realize I have a fear of needles and I faint at the sight of them. No more self-inflicted injury for me, nosiree.

Now I have a five-millimeter long wound at my left arm and I gently change the Winnie-the-Pooh band-aid on it everyday. Religiously. And I cry when I change my bandages, because they hurt on the inside. Since I have proven to the world how much of a wimp I am, does that make me a true-blooded emo?