Damn

Fuck you...that's what it's about.

I don't get life anymore. I thought I did, at one point. Maybe the stream of events that pushes you into your future is what it's all about. I have no fucking clue anymore. You start with dreams of grandeur: a nice house, nice wife, nice family, nice car. Then it turns to shit in a knuckle sandwich delivered by a donkey punch to the groin. Yeah, that didn't make sense, but I don't care to elaborate in anything but a colorful and inaccurate description of what only a man can imagine as the most God-awful pain.

I'm stuck with a nagging feeling that the only constants in my life are things that I don't want. It's as if my original desires are shackles, tying me down and eliminating my freedom. I don't want this life. I don't like life as I know it. It burns me inside to see my life, my ways, my freedom challenged by my own design. How did it come to this?

The grass being greener on the other side is a bit of an understatement at this point. The only thing worth thinking about is what's new, what's next, what's beyond, what you can't have. Oh, you have what you want? Fuck you. I don't care what you have or what you want. If you don't see it from my eyes, what do I care?

This juvenile observation defines me right now, and it consumes me. I don't want a lie, I don't want a life. It seems right now the two are so intertwined that they have become synonymous. Why am I here? Why did I do it? Why haven't I done it? So many answers, possibilities that it's literally mind-numbing and has me reaching for a drink. How can I say goodbye to something that I don't even know ever existed, except in my own mind? Things I have felt, seen and done lie to the wayside ignored. There is only that which lies ahead, in ruin already.

It seems my destructive tendencies surround me, cloud me and mystify whatever peasant turns to observe. They dare to judge, but they don't. Instead, they pity. Why pity me? I'm living the life I've desired, aren't I? Isn't it for me to discern what I want and not do as others expect of me? And yet, here I am, living another's life, living my own personal lie that has caught up with me and cast me back into hell. Fuck this shit. I hate it.

Give me what I've earned. I won't take it, because I fear what I have sown. My harvest will include mayhem and destruction...but it seems I've inadvertently turned my damned tractor on auto-pilot. Shit. Now I can't help but watch as my headless machine does my work for me, as if my soul were watching my body fuck up the Earth. Oh wait, I'm one in 7 billion...who am I to become so significant? I am nobody, I have nothing on this planet that would stand and attest for a monument to my existence.

Memory will fade, records will be lost or deleted or archived. Who gives a shit about records? What kind of crisis am I in? It's like a quarter-life crisis...fuck John Mayer.

Yeah, I liked "Your Body is a Wonderland" until I heard it time and time again.

I don't even think I'm capable of love, to be honest. I can't feel anything, no emotion, except anger and sadness. Sadness because of lost love, a lost friend, something similar that would cause me to grieve. Perhaps my happiness is due to being with someone, but when it turns bad, then what? My anger kicks in, leading to sadness. What a vicious, pointless fucking cycle.

I don't know what to do right now...cry? laugh? worry? Shit, I have too much on my damned plate to recognize that my life is decent. Sure, it's not the best, but it's not the worst, either. It sure feels like it though.

There are rough patches, I know. Some days people will say are better than others, and others obviously have to follow suit and be worse. Today, I went from fucking fantastic to shitty as fuck in an hour. How the hell did I manage that? By God, if you can figure that out, I'll give you a damned cookie and a half.

This incoherence is annoying me, too. I can only imagine the reader sitting there saying "get to the point, already!" Guess what: that is the point. I am full of regret right now, venting it as a hostile message because I hurt. Yeah, I could go into the field of psychology and make a billion dollars translating people's pathetic feelings into words that highlight what their dumbasses should have guessed if their head wasn't up their rectum already. Big whoop, wanna fight about it?! (Obscure Family Guy reference)

I don't see the point of doing shit anymore...a sign of depression. But, I'm not really that depressed. I can't really pinpoint it. Maybe I need to live, or relax, or just lose everything to find exactly what I do have.

For right now, I can't go to sleep because my heart hurts, and I don't even know why.