Sunday afternoons are the greatest cause for suicide.

When you feel like you're losing grip on everything, what do you do? I'm only asking 'cause I need some advice about that. I've got the feeling my whole life is saying 'fuck y'all' and is leaving, smashing the door closed. I want to not exist anymore. I don't want to go to school, I don't want to think about the future, I don't want to read, write, surf, sport. All I want to do is sleep. I feel like nothing is worth it anymore, you know?

It's like that stupid song 'The usual Sunday with the flu'; everything is conspiring against me. Mostly I'm willing to fight life, to show I'm the better person and fuck you, Destiny. But now I'm suffering from that dashed thing 'ennui', you know. I want to stay listening to that stupid Sunday afternoon radio programming. I want time to stop. I want to be able not to give a fuck. But truth is I'm so fucking responsible, you know. I have to take care of MT, school work, my AFS application, my theatre group, my weight (there we go again, stupid hormonal teenager shit).

Francis Cabrel is singing a folk song, and even the upbeat Phil Collins song that follows can't get my moral up. It's like I'm feeling the down from last night's up particularly sharply. It's cutting through my chest, right to my heart and makes me realise I'm a lonely pathetic fuck up. I'm not yet eighteen and my back hurts from all those years of hunching my shoulders forward. Give me ten years more and I'll look like the hunchback of Notre Dame. I disgust myself.

On the good side: I had fun last night. Alone. With my dad. Because everybody was having fun in Brussels with their boyfriend, or in Boutersem at the Message Party with their friends. Or in lost places of Belgium with the scouts. And I was looking at all those half-drunks on the dancefloor, half-dancing with their beers half-swaying with their partners. And even though you might think they were the most pathetic ones, sloshing their beer all over the place, I was actually wondering if it wasn't me, dancing alone in a corner. In the middle of all these 'old' people, who where around 25.

Back home at three. Way to early, the stuff was only getting started. But I'm so fucking lame I slept till noon anyway.

I want the ads on the radio to stop and the lame music to start paying again.

Come on, Classic 21. Numb my mind. Be my drug, my alcohol, my cigarettes.

Make me live through Sunday afternoon.