F.T.W

All at once any sort of demon seemed to dissolve away. I was at a party. A party! I sung and danced! I came home the next day and the black dog hit me like a block of ice, smack bang in the head. I couldn't function, or move, or keep my eyes dry for half a minute. I slept all day and weeped all morning. I decided to either run away or throw myself off the bridge. I contained myself for the day and instead slept the misery away. I never in my life want to return to a place like that for as long as I live. A place plagued by visions of every member of this generation rotting in coffins 100 years on. An astonishing new height of despair. A pure and absolute dead end. I tried to live as any person might live. I am doing impeccably well, I should say. I spat in the face of the anxiety and shot holes in the misery. Tonight I deal with a new issue and that is anger. An anger suppressant, I find, seems to be writing. Writing anything. I have given my all and recieved very little. At least nothing worth being satisfied with. Set me free, why don't you? Get out my life, why don't you?

I hadn't realised how sour I had been until I recieved the message that I seemed happy. My dad became sentimental when he spoke of me being younger. I suppose I was happy enough to involuntarily induce memories of my childhood. I felt that he was happy. All those months when he used to phone and I had all but nothing to say, and he probably hung up the phone feeling unwanted and low. As did I, when he laughed and mocked the fact that I did nothing all day long. I have picked up a peculiar sense of humour. I rarely know when I am about to say something funny before a slip of the tongue reveals all. Yet I amuse myself more than my family. But I am happy with that. My amusement induces others amusement. What can I say anymore. I will myself to go out, if even just to spit it in somebody's face. Doing something so simple should never be so thought out. I have tried to be pure, simple and quirky. You know what? I'd rather be an angry hermit than to be so common. I have a pretentious likeability that is too rare to abandon. Fuck, it has taken me years to gather the evidence of why I should appreciate myself so much. Why I should love to sit and mope and write and curse and fuck everything up. I didn't want the company until it was handed to me on a silver tray. I took a chance on life and enjoyed what came, but 'till then the struggle isn't worth the guilt. I have a disgusting intellectual pretence going on and I can't help but make it my world. Nobody in the right mind would understand a sentence of what I write. I used to love that, but is it really worth the point? What would happen if you feel too mentally segregated to possibly have a healthy relationship? My mind controls my body, but is so full of shit that it rarely finds time to make it move.

I am not scared of your world. I am too comfortable in mine. I am all set and prepared for a journey with endless supplies of gum, diet coke and vitamin suppliments. Here's to wasting, I say.