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August 5, 2016

Turmoil is my escape to victim-hood. Today, I didn’t only act like a complete pussy, I bled for days, I also felt like a complete fucking moron. There’s something that happens when you write personal truths and it rots in your brain, this is what happened to me a few weeks back. However, today I seemed to have tapped into my nostalgia and got a glimpse of my future and figured it was nothing but shit and proceeded to fantasize about how awful the future could only get. Now, why would a human being do this? Why would a person torment themselves like this on purpose? I did mention that I was a complete and total moron before didn’t I? Actually, what it was unresolved feelings resurfacing and finding anyway to attack my psyche, because that’s how I roll.

I realize how much bullshit it is and I’m sick of it as well. I poured my heart and soul into 300 pages of my own grief and it’s great, well I mean on paper it’s a fun read. The fact of the matter is that I got a glimpse into my past that most people don’t get, and it’s frustrating. Hindsight being 20/20 I often think about being on the business side of a shotgun. I’m not trying to hold onto any relationship I had prior, but more my objection to becoming such a cruel significant other, which I definitely was. I never treated a woman badly, nor had I ever wanted ill will on a woman, but I was self-deprecating to the point of close to possible death. That’s just not fair for a person who loves you to go through, so I understand.

So, I found myself feeling lost in the cosmic void of drug induced isolation. I push people away. I’m supercilious and I’m callous, but that’s a demeanor I’ve acquired after cynicism and bitterness proved right. I let few know who I really am, and I see that as, well a pretty fucking weak defense for being vulnerable. This husk of shit I’ve wrapped myself around of cynicism and bitterness is a barrier that I keep from being human. It’s just a tomb of relentless grief and sadness that I won’t seem to carry past my death. In all honesty, this is a bit over dramatic but somewhat accurate. That’s the most annoying part of my acknowledgement of my underlying guilt of fake hubris. Humans be damned, I’m one of you fuckers and I sound like a fucking idiot. WAAAAAH, I don’t deserve writing implements.

Life’s a funny thing, and the more I explore the universe within my brain the more I find everything we do more and more futile, but that’s a story for later. Or is it? The funny thing is that we feel like we matter, but we’re just matter and we suck and mean nothing. The earth is a ticking timer because of our sun, which will eventually supernova. Therefore killing the earth and all it’s contents… Seems a bit vapid and insipid if you think about it. Plain shit exploding. It’ll FUCK us up. Good. Or not. I don’t care. At this point in my isolation I’m not concerned for others, because I don’t care. The reason why I don’t care is the same reason why I don’t care about my well-being. I’m just a body, fat, bones, and nerves; life works in mysterious ways, but more so to the fact that we’re just fat bones and nerves. I’ve got nothing to preserve and my writing is just as equal as the wad of phlegm I spat earlier, because it will die with us. We’re on the brink of annihilation, and we’re worried about how… It doesn’t matter, what matters is… Well… Nothing. We’re animals on a rock that’s hurtling fast as shit and we think we’re special for some reason, all the while the sun will supernova and destroy all we know as life. Look up at ‘dem’ stars, the dead ones, might possibly have that same story.

Let’s be less high and mighty and actually work with each other for once? I mean, it’s fucking embarrassing that we hadn’t yet.

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