What the flying fuck:

I don’t know. This is a long shot. I’m hoping it ends longer than a single paragraph.

I don’t have anything.

That doesn’t seem like a profound statement but think about it.

I don’t have… anything

Oh Jesus. Whatever.

Well, I’m alone, there’s no fun in my life, and all I have is work work work more work. Even these two weeks off to adjust my psych meds to get less ill have been me mostly occupying my time with work and development projects.

But what happens when I don’t have the muster?

I don’t know. I don’t even want to write. Kratom is great, but it’s no high. I don’t want anything dangerous. I’m never doing coke. Not “again”. I never have. Just never. I wouldn’t want my nose irritated like that. So dangerous. You have to know your shit to do hard drugs safely. And it can be done.

What was I saying…

Oh yeah: Nothing.

Well.

It’s tapering down.

We’re in that phase again.

 

And the damn scrollbar is broken.

 

What the flying fuck.

 

Why am I double whitespacing these sentences.

 

Sentence.

Think about it.

Finish

Your

Sentence.

 

I have nowhere to go, either. There’s no escape, really. I just don’t know. No one to talk to. The big three: Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to talk to. Isolation. Perfect, deadly isolation. The perfect deadly kind.

What do I have?

I’d have to ask someone–a professional–to take an inventory for me. To take stock on my behalf. They’d have to be a mind-reader. Of course, these days, with me, everyone is. That’s where my illness kicks in. I don’t really have privacy anymore. People visit as they wish. They come, they go. No corporeal, totally in spirit. But very real.

I need to update my psychiatrist. I’m no way am I going back to work in a week. I can’t be around people that much for that long. It kills me. I found the term for what I am: anthrophobic. Yeah.

So. There you have it. My life. Dumb. Dumb life. Smart me. Dumb life.

Yep, scrollbar’s definitely broken.

And I don’t get why people try to influence me so much. What the flying fuck. I have no idea. So many motives. It seems.

Once again, blogging solved nothing. It didn’t let me vent, I came up with no genius ideas, nada. What a waste of time. Not that the rest of my life isn’t. But you know.

But of course you do. You all do. You know all about it. Don’t you.

2 thoughts on “What the flying fuck:

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