Blank Doll vents his frustration.

All right, still stuck in some obscure funk. I have to get it out of my systems, this strange brooding melancholia.

By the way, I claim linguistic immunity. You may not pick on my language. Any attempt at doing so will result in me switching to french or Blank Doll speak which will fry your pathetic excuse for a brain.

Going to Japan in two weeks' time. Before that happens, I shall run down to HMV to steal a certain embarrassing album. Euphoria can be so degrading.

Been thinking. Is it really so strange for me to love the cold? I just realized that it's not so much love that I desire but the sense of acquring it and losing it. I like despair. Despair is a nice enough substitute for passion which I am singularly incapable of. Unless you're talking about fashion and my ambition in which case passion becomes almost deadly.

Freud once differentiated love into two variants: the life and the death. The death one, Thanatos, is in my opinion, the only thing I'm capable of. This explains the self-destruction, the sadomasochism and the morbid obsession with cold and pain. I like being alone. I want solitude. I want to feel my painful existence all by myself in the full knowledge that I wilfully ignore love. If I had a soulmate, this is the point where I refuse to acknowledge the presence of a soulmate until my soulmate dies. Ah, the grief. I take too much pleasure in feeling pain for it to be healthy.

But there is another side to this. I want to traverse the world, scale the peaks of my dreams, descend into the gutters with nothing but my body saturated with pain and alcohol, dine in L'Hotel Crillon wearing a velvet jacket and wing tips, plot to take over the world and return home to someone I love. I want the calm after the storm as much as I want the storm.

Can anyone survive merely by embracing the tempest? My world swirls around me, constricting me. I need to break out.

Aside: My dad thinks ill of me. For some strange reason, he thinks I'm a spoilt brat who stays out late and gets drunk all the time. Like, what the hell? Since when has the Perfect Son ever been anything but Perfect? I'm more than a little upset at this strange impression he's concocted for himself since it can't be further from the truth.

Back to me: I believe in magic. When I was young, all I could think of was to learn how to fly, how to open gates to other worlds, how to make vases hum and burst into flames. I always imagined myself stepping through a door and ending up in another world. I dreamt about magic, I felt magic in the air. It's painful, to desire something so impossible. Maybe that's why I want to go into fashion, there's magic there when I can't find any in the world. Sometimes I sense it still. Magic that hides behind the facade of the mundane, Magic that makes me cry, that makes my heart ache for more. I still believe in Magic, that I may one day be swept away.

Believing in Magic is so much more fulfilling than believeing in Love.

C'est tout.