Once again I find myself feeling like I’m stuck on my own pathetic little island lost in a sea of misery.
I send out countless notes in bottles everyday, hoping to be rescued, but I doubt most of them are ever found, and the few that are don’t seem to make sense, maybe I’m losing my wits.
The thin straight scars on my left wrist are like an S.O.S. sign made with rocks on the beach, too small and insignificant to be seen.
I’d make a signal fire, but this island is too cold and damp with despair for any sort of hope to ignite.
Oh well, looks like it’s just me and a bottle of rum again. It’s hard to believe I once thought I wouldn’t drink until I’m 21.