Entry #1 - 3/15
No. That's cringy.
That's worse. I'm humanizing and object. Do you have feelings? Can you hear me? Whatever, I'll just write. Why am I explaining this to you?
Hi, I'm Gina. Don't call me GiGi. I'm not a child, contrary to popular belief. There shouldn't be anyone reading this, unless my psychologist breaks her contract. Or my mother once again decides I'm having intercourse and doing drugs and goes through my room again. My town has practically nobody in it, who would I be having sex with anyway? I could give somebody a whole tour of this shithole in ten minutes. We have a school, a food store, couple random run-down shops here and there, and the pride and joy of our town: the football field. It probably sounds cliche, and honestly it is. It's like Friday Night Lights but with murder. Oh, forgot to mention, we have a serial killer. Nobody can catch them, can't even identify them. They're known as Killer Banksy, because they always make an art piece out of the crime scene. Absolutely gorgeous pieces may I say. I still don't understand why Dr. Karrie is making me do this. All I'm doing is talking to an inanimate object in the form of writing. At least it's not those stupid ink blots. She's all like:
"What do you see?" And I go:
"Ink on paper."
"I mean, what do you really see?"
"I don't know, a face?"
"OH MY GOSH! You have cancer!"
Stupidest shit on the planet. I guess through this she wants me to get out my feelings through writing. I have feelings. I just don't need to cry all the time. I'm entirely and completely fine, yet I still required to write in a book. Now I'm all worked up, and as Dr. Karrie says:
"Just put everything down and breathe. In and out. Like this!" Then she'll proceed to let out the most obnoxious breaths you've ever heard. Stupid, but it works. I'll see you tomorrow. No, I won't. You're a book. You're not real. Fuck this shit.