I stole again today. Toilet papers. It would be clearer if put this way: I have stolen toilet papers again today. It became a ceremonial habit. I steal them just in case. In case I have to clean up again. Because the worst thing that can happen to you when you wake up soaked in blood next to a dead body is to run out of toilet papers.

Don't get me wrong; toilet papers aren't the only items I steal. I steal what I know I can use but wouldn't spare cash on. Not that I can't afford these things, but I just find them too trivial to be worth the money. Like the pair of cheap socks I stole the other day. And the cherry lollipop I stole three days ago. I once, even, stole another lady's lipstick but almost got caught. She realized it went missing and made a bit of a fuss. I had to run home that night. I learned then the hazards of stealing something personal. I made a pact to never steal from individuals again, or, in other words, to avoid stealing what's remarkable or easily noticed. The thing about stores is that they're usually kind of packed with products or costumers or both. So it's pretty hard to notice when something minute goes missing right away. Unless you're paying too much attention, which I've learned to avoid. So you get the chance to flee unnoticed. I also learned not to steal twice from the same place. I usually succeed in veiling my face from installed cameras, if there's any, but humans can notice you. They can smell your vibes. So as an act of precaution, one shouldn't steal repeatedly from the same place. Have some mercy on the salesmen/women. These stolen items might be deducted from their, already insufficient, salary. It takes experience to come up with such tips.

Now I know this isn't right. But who cares really?! I am crazy. You can't blame me for anything. I can come all the way to your house, knock on your door, and beat you up and still no one can blame me. I will go to a mental institution not jail. And when my story comes on the news, people will pity me not resent me. So if it happened and you're reading my journals and judging me. I just want you to know that you can burn in hell peacefully because I don't give a single damn about your opinion.

I never told anyone, of course. Not Silver. Not Jeff. And, apparently, not Justin. I didn't even tell my therapist, the only man who's supposed to know. I, indeed, pay him loads so he can listen to my confessions about stuff like that. Like stealing. Like hallucinating and deliberately believing. And, obviously, like killing. Or should he? So I never told him I steal. Or that I was the one who stole his silver-coated pen that his wife got for him in their third anniversary. I never told him I hid it in the woods next to the lake. And I never told him that, until this very moment, I never knew why I did it. Not why I stole it but why I got rid of it.

One last confession, I stole this journal.