Armor?

I have to wonder if all this is something my brain is doing to me while it tries to work its own shit out.

I'm down again, that hopeless feeling of being alone. I really hate depression, and I hate every last thought and way I act when it hits. It's all so goddamn cliche, everything I do just seems like I'm following some god-awful script.

So maybe that's what all of this is, some sick form of protection. I'll admit, it makes me feel big; tough even sometimes. I know I'm not not though, so the in the back of my mind I can laugh at the farce I put on as I strut around, pushing my chest out and stomach in.

I hate that I have to write to work things out. I hate that I put myself out there for anyone to see, yet my natural ego demands I put it on the internet. I tried a home journal but all I see is jumbled handwriting that I can't seem (Or want?) to make coherant.

The weekends coming. Maybe I'll just get drunk again.