Sometimes I want to kick Nietzsche in the nads and ask him who's stronger now.
Sometimes I wonder which is worse: The fact that I can live with the pain, or the fact that, as time goes on, it just gets worse. Sometimes I want to jab my chest with an icepick and pluck the offending organs out. This is somewhat ironic, as I usually imagine my childhood as walking around with an open chest wound that everyone would poke in order to torture me. God, I haven't thought about just how awful my life has been in quite a while. Oh well. The details have gotten fuzzier and fuzzier over the years, so I'll just leave you with the .sig I used through most of college:
"I want to be the kind of boy you are, thought Bean. But I don't want to go through what you've been to get there...I don't want to have to go through what I've gone through to get here, either."