You tell me I'm sick. That I need help. That I can get better. I tell you to mind your own damn business. Because so far, you constantly repeat those words to me and yet you do nothing to help me. Isn't that your job? Isn't that what you get paid for? To help those in such desperate need of it?
Onetwothreefourfivesixseven. That's the number of canvases I want to create right now. No, no I'm lying again. I want to create an unlimited amount, really. Onetwothreefourfive. That's the number of meals I prepared and cooked yesterday. Zero is the amount that I actually ate. Onetwothree. That's the number of alcoholic drinks I've drank so far, just tonight. I like odd numbers for some reason. Lately, they give me comfort. I don't know why. Maybe it is OCD raring its ugly head again, who knows.
3.15am again. It's a good time to begin counting. I count the number of patterns along my arms...oh sorry, I lost count. There appears to be too many to keep track of. I hope it's an odd number. I notice I'm wearing odd socks. How extremely fitting.
Onetwothreefourfivesixseven. I like the number seven, too. Can someone explain to me why? Because I sure don't know. I know it's the number of plates that are so neatly stacked in a pile. I know it's the number of times in the past three minutes I've wanted to stencil. I know it's a number that gives me comfort. Because it's odd.
Drowning in alcohol. Suffocating in depression. Spending nights creating new landscapes. Spending days rejecting nourishment. Spending time. Timetimetime. Counting needlessly.
See, even my problems are odd. You tell me I'm sick and that I need help. I tell you I know this. I tell you:
