Senseless-Surgery

At a skin-deep level, everyone but the cutter will say because it's not healthy. Because it doesn't help, even though it feels like it does for a short moment. They scream and banter how it means there's something even worse wrong, and how it's a sign for even worse things. Regular middle-class soccer mom bullshit. 

Let's rephrase the question.

What's wrong with being a casual alcoholic? Drinking constantly then having your orgasm of a night once or twice a week, passing out flat on the ground from sheer intoxication. 
Cutting is an addiction similar to that of alcoholism. You use it to get away from your problems, with a much more obvious sign that it's wrong. This leads to shame, which leads to more cutting, possibly similar to alcoholism(as it's currently not my forte, I am unsure.) I took a good, long look at my blade merely moments ago. It's not like I was planning to kill myself, it was more of just a 'I'm sad, let's deal with it.' sort of ordeal. Luckily, a curious question came into my mind--"What's wrong with cutting?"

Let's see,
Take away the blade, and replace it with a bottle.
Take away my scars and replace them with a shrivel up my liver,
and take away the 'dealing with it'  for the phrase 'I just want to escape for a few hours'.

Why don't we look at alcoholics the same way we do cutters? They're sick as well, and they need help as well. Why do we label the cutters as something more dangerous? 'It's a sign of something worse.' Might as well say, 'They might be planning to shoot up their school at any moment!" It's no sin to be sick, it just means that you require treatment and help. You don't see anyone bashing someone with leukemia for their disease, now do you? The sick are not the disgusting ones, but the members of society who label them as disgusting. Cutters are sick, not abominations. They need help, possibly even medicine--and at most they need to know that they should not feel afraid to tell someone. Cutting is an addiction, not a crime. If you seek help, you can get it.

I don't know how long I've been clean, but it hasn't been that long.
I may not have withdraws similar to that of a crackhead, a heroine addict, or even an alcoholic--but I still feel the craving whenever the mood hits just right. In my life I've relapsed for elongated periods at least three times, but tonight wasn't one of them. Hopefully, tomorrow won't either.

I'm trying to find the words I want to say, but nothing is right.
All I can say is I don't want to die, and that I'm not depressed. 

A deep sense of melancholy, ennui, and apathy has seeded itself inside my chest, and returning to DA seems to only encourage it's growth. While it's true in reality I suffer from many stressors, but anything is better then having my shattered dreams being rubbed in my face and defiled by the success of others. 
I will never be good enough to be a manga author.
I will never be good enough to be a regular author.
I lack the talent to be an artist, and so I give up.

I intend to finish all commissions, but I can't bare to draw a single line out of such.
I'm inadequate, I haven't improved nearly enough for my tastes and needs. I've been drawing for ten years, and what have I to show? Some art worse then even the cheapest commissions for foot fetishes?

Of course, this is not my only problem as of this moment. This is simply what I'm choosing to blame everything on.

So one of my friends tripped on my laptop and now there's a whirring sound anytime I move it, as if a motor got knocked off it's railing and is now jamming upon usage.
Turning it off is the only way to truely make it go away.
I still have school computers, so I should be able to do daily drawings once everythings assorted, as well as continue spamming friends easily.

Today I have forsaken my loyalty to Google, and have subscribed myself to the relatively superiority of aesthetics in Bing. Google, a simple, yet perfect formula of "How well does this work?" and "How can we make this easier?", has always yielded me perfect responses and answers... but I was swept off my feet when I found out Bing will literally pay you to use it. My initial response was, "Wow! What a deal, how could I refuse?", but the Freudian subconscious of my brain screamed for me to stop and think about this. Memories of business and marketing came into view through the chasms in my brain, and a tinge of skepticism and inspiration was sparked.

The offer had most certainly caught my attention, but should I really abandon my beloved for... Bing? Though by any and all means of a decent quality, Bing has always been... laughable. Why? Because they aspired to be more pretentiously artistic and their failed attempts at clairvoyance? Sure, it 'auto-corrects'(Though it's correct is a mistake.) things sometimes for slight grievance, but have we no loyalty to those who aspire for something more? Have we finally given up on those who dream of a better future, and simply stick to those who have a solid method--changing only slightly over the many years it has been used? Never before had I even thought more then a chuckle at the name, but now I find myself affixed with it. A kinship, if you would.

Don't misunderstand me, I love Google. I love Google's use of their funds to create things like GoogleX and Youtube Partnerships, but I do believe we should give the opposing teams a slight understanding. If not to join them, at least to stop belittling them.
Bing is a child, stretching their arms and legs out in all different positions attempting to grow. Sure, they will pull a few muscles--but they are trying. It may not work now, but why snuff out the dream? Smaller sites (even those who have fairly strong loyalties and markets) are dying, just as with businesses. As a species, we desire security over fantasies. Who cares if Bing may one day design a hybrid between Deviantart and Google? Leave well-enough alone! Those phrases are the opposition of advancement, the bane of our futures.

Please understand, Bing has a much more symbolic meaning in this... observation. Bing is, to me, a child whose dream is to be an astronaut. A teenager who paints with their bleeding makeup and pain, because despite the world feeling the same-- they feel alone. Bing is the American Dream, hoping to crawl up from nothing, and reach to the skies above
Google, I love you, but I must digress for the time. Until I find a deeper relationship with you,
I want to dream big.
I want to dream Bing.

(Totally wouldn't mind a advertisement job Bing !)

There's something awfully upsetting about the first time you have to lick your own wounds, especially if it's for something so tiny as a splinter. As a child, you're prepared to chew off your own arm if you get caught in a bear trap- not because you're badass, but because you saw it in a really cool movie or book. When you 'mature' into a teen, you're cutting at your arms instead. You fight wars inside your mind daily against what society deems 'normal', yet for a child stuck in a developing body- it's simply obscure.
Now as an 'adult', you must be held responsible for things that were brushed off yesteryear- as well as hold yourself sole caretaker of yourself. With nobody to hug you, and nobody to kiss your paper cuts- you're about the mental capacity of a wounded animal. Sure, you know how to treat it- but you're not good at it at all. A drop of blood becomes a gallon now- not physically, but emotionally.

Squeezing at my finger, I pushed the end of a wooden splinter out of my finger. It was barely enough to grasp onto with my (presumably filthy) nail clippers, and so deep inside the crevices of my flesh it gave a sharp sting upon removal. There was something soul-wrenching about it. "Oh, if I were at home, Mawmaw would have taken care of it much better.", I had thought. Sure, she was much more aggressive at it- and would have undoubtedly made me shriek in agony much more then I had with my own, but the emotional comfort would have been worth it.

I may harbor all of the seven sins inside of my heart, but I still yearn most for the days that have passed. I'm but a child, untrained and unskilled, stuck inside the body of a adult. Perhaps, we are all children in this sense. My mother, brain-damaged, more obvious then most. My grandmother, however, gets her giggles and shits from cartoons- whilst maintaining her authoritative figure. She does her taxes, makes her bed, and folds her clothes. She cooks our dinner, and kisses our bruises, and loves us when no one else will. And yet, when I look into her sunken eyes, slightly hidden by the wrinkled flaps that surround them, I can't help but see the same youth that appears in my eyes.

Are we not all children, simply forced to uphold incredible rules and reasoning due to our age- rather then ability? If life, in a similar visual-aspect to that of a demanding parent, asking for too much of us? Though we can be independent, can we expect each and everyone else to be?
I'm an eighteen year old, I like porn and stuffed animals. Not at the same time, usually. I can watch an episode of MLP right after South Park, and laugh just as much for each. Am I immature, or am I human? Age should not define our expectations- our responsibilities and actions should.

A pregnant thirteen-year-old has much higher expectations then I. Will she be ridiculed for simply obeying her untamed instincts, as well as her decision to either keep or abort the child?
The eldest child (yet younger then 13) of a large family has much higher expectations then I. Should they burn the dinner, and be reprimanded with lashings or curses?
The greenhorn cop has much, much higher expectations then I. Shall he pull the trigger- from human instinct or fear, it is unknown- and be labeled as a monster for simple inexperience?
We are children, and we must be taught. We must be loved, and punished, but most importantly- we must be forgiven.
We are children.
We are human.