When I think of myself, words like trash, filth, and shit come to mind.

Though, I really don't know why.

When I was growing up, my parents weren't there for me, and I was constantly being babysitted. I had to learn to make my own meals and I had to learn that crying did nothing.

I don't know why I have such a small opinion of myself. Maybe, I was a bed-wetting psyco that tortured small animals when I was young.

I really don't think I was.

I was thinking about this earlier, and I've found out that I don't know why I'm this way.

Maybe, I was just meant to be this way.

I don't know exactly what makes this of any importance.

I don't know why you read this.

I don't know why people would ever be entertained by a misanthropic, manic depressive drug addict whose life could easily be made into a B-movie; where the hero dies untimely, more than likely by his own hand.

I don't know a lot of things anymore.

I shouldn't assume that I do anymore.

Sometimes you just need a cigarette.