Ah! I ripped some more death metal shit. This was very necessary, especially since I nearly lost it this week with my rage tantrums.

Bleeding knuckels from punching doors and walls was the least of my problems as I felt my head bursting into flames.

Why you ask? No sensible reason at fucking all! I just found myself thrashing around my room, cursing my lungs out, throwing shit at the walls with the true and real attempt at breaking it. Thankfully, my roommates were not around, so I didn't risk scaring the living Christ out of them.

It was incredibly therapeutic, though... I should do that more often.

Seriously, some people reccomend soft music, scented candles and a warm bath to relax... but I know that shit like that only serves to infuriate me more because I see that as an attempt to push my frustration back down to the core of my being. My frustration is very real and should be released, and fucking soft music will not do.

DEATH METAL! That's the fucking way to do it. The gutteral growls, the flesh-grinding drums and the beheading guitar solos let my flames consume everything in sight before dying down and leaving nothing but ashes. In any case, after the whole storm died down, I felt this incredible feeling, like I had just risen to a completely separate plane of existance. My friend used the perfect word to describe it the other day: "Cleansed." That's exactly what I felt - cleansed with holy water, and what was an inferno burning inside me became some form of spiritual light emanating from my body. 

Besides that, I get amazing responses from many people about my writing, my zines and my writing and artistic productions. However, I can't manage to find a writing job. I realized that if I wanna work for some company in some writing position, I have to fit their standards and their style. This is why I can't manage to find a job. If I have to restrict myself, censore myself, edit myself, rework phrases over and over again, the end result will be a watered down, boring and senseless version of my capabilities.

This was one of my reasons for starting a feminist zine. I don't let myself be limited by editing and stylistic guidelines. I write what comes to mind and what feels right. Fuck professionalism, this is about expression, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, pure freedom that has been butchered by popular press and asshole editors driven by nothing but their insatiable thirst for money.

Long live zines! 

Peace, love and yes, my rage is definitely directed at you miserable parasitical ameobas pretending to be editors. Fuck you all, a million times over.

This is what will happen to your penis if you fuck with me.