Fucking stupid motherfucker. If he hadn't decided to drop by unannounced to win me back or whatever the hell he was trying to do, I wouldn't be in this situation. Stupid asswipe. I guess it was partly my fault for giving him a key that time. I guess this is the part where I go on about my feelings, but I really don't want to talk. Thanks anyway, journal. Oh, you insist? Well then ok, asshole, here it goes. My sad tale of woe. I'm Naomi and three days ago I slit my wrists.

You know what they don't tell you on TV about suicide is that it's not always a cry for help. Sometimes the person actually really just want to fucking die. That's me. It's not that my life is particularly awful on paper, but I'm miserable anyway. Broke up with my boyfriend two weeks ago. Hooked up with random guys and girls in the weeks since. Yeah I perpetuate the stereotype that bi people are sluts. Who the fuck cares? I don't, but then of course I really don't give a shit about anything. He called everyday like the little whipped boy he is.

"Naomi, please rethink it."

"Hey, it's me, just wondered how you're doing."

"I need you back. Please."

Fucking pussy. I don't need someone as wimpy and girly as him. If I wanted a girl, I'd be dating a girl. Yeah, I like girls. Have ever since middle school if I'm really being honest with myself. Starting nailing them when I was in college though. Girls are better, softer. Oh well I'm not up for that sappy shit anymore. I used to be so caring, so nice. Not anymore. I've pretty much driven all my friends away with my bitchiness. Fuck 'em.

Anyway, so I cut my wrists. I really was hoping to die. And as you might have gleaned, my ex-boyfriend found me and called the hospital. Now here I am at the lovely Forest Greens Center for Mental Rehabilitation. Apparently the judge ordered me here for an undisclosed, likely undetermined, amount of time. So here I am, a happy camper.

I got up the morning to eat some of the gruel they served. Actually it's not that bad, but I'm fucking depressed so I don't really care. Then they pulled me in to talk to the doctor.

"So, Naomi, how are you doing?"

"Oh great, you know, just thought I'd slit my wrists to see what would happen." I said waving my bandaged arms for show. "It's a really innovative fashion statement. I'm all about the fashion."

That's a lie. I don't give a flying fuck about fashion. My last girlfriend, Erica, was always on my case about it. Plaid doesn't match everything, she'd plead. Well in my book, it does. So get over it.

"Sarcasm doesn't really help me help you."

"Maybe I don't want to be helped? Maybe I just want to be alone to kill myself. Ever thought of that, doc?"

"See, this suicidal ideation is what concerning. How long have you been wanting to kill yourself?"

I decide that I can at least stop being a prick and answer the docs questions. "I don't know, a year, maybe?"

"Did you have a plan that entire time?"

"No, I just thought about it."

"Do you ever think about hurting others? Your family, maybe?"

"No, if you'd read your fucking file on me then you'd know that my dad died in a car accident five years ago, and my siblings and I aren't exactly on the best terms."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like to talk about? Tell me how you felt, how you feel now?"

"It felt fucking wonderful, thanks for asking. I'm actually a sick masochist, you fancy some rough sex?"

"Ok, Ms. Campbell, I can see that we're not going to get anything done today. I'm prescribing you 200mg of sertraline and 2mg of risperidone. That should sort you out. Ms. Jones will show you to your new room."

New room? WTF. I liked the old one fine, thank you very much. Ms. Jones came and got me and led me to the last room in the block.

"Here it is, love," she said kindly, "Your roommate's Emily."

I walk into the room to see a girl staring off into space. In the real world I'd have found her attractive. Medium length red hair, fit body, everything pointed towards hot. But I wasn't in the real world, I was in a mental hospital. Meaning that this girl was most likely mad.

"Hi," I said, sticking my hand out. She broke her glance and turned to me. She looked bewildered, as if she had no idea what I was doing. "I'm Naomi."

She stood up, walked over and grabbed into a tight hug.

"Hey, well hello, I have a name that my parents gave me. That's a nice coat you've got did you get it at the flomozzle? Well the thing about talking is that is just works, words I mean, doesn't always mean things. Things are really weird now, have you heard about-" She trailed off, and began to stare at the wall. Then,

"They're after you, you know. The aliens, they put the chicken in my brain. So I went to the arcade, do you like green? You're in here, you must be a fan of football."

What is wrong with this girl?