Well, look at what was unearthed. A being in the form of a immature, pathetic human...Poor thing.
Yeah, so lo and yo. It's me, whatever my name is. I know no one's reading this, so I'll just take this time to rant nice and loudly to myself. Why the hell am I doing this...? I assure you, I have over 200 pages of a personal document dedicated to six years of ranting that I will never show to the public. This, here, is more like...
...well, hell if I know.
So let's just get this out of the way. If you never knew before, I'm suicidal. I've been suicidal since 2008. Yeah, blah, blah, therapy, medication, shit. Stemming from this, there's been a lack of...interest and energy. And brain cells, in personal opinion. Generally, my interests haven't changed in the slightest. It's just...more so giving time for my interests, either too much or too little, and...hell, I don't know to even think straight, okay? Like I said...them brain cells seem to be ditching me.
I moved out of my dad's place around this time last year, exactly. I've been living with a bitch of a housemate since then and have lost what may as well be $1000 worth of my things as well as actual money because of her and because of sheer unluckiness.
- 2 brand new Nintendo Wii systems
- 1 brand new iPad 2
- 2 rings
- 2 pairs of awesome round sunglasses, one that was particularly Burtonesque
- A pair of pants that I needed
- A secondhand vest that was a fucking steal and imperative for my wardrobe
- $125
- $60
- My bat cross necklace
And more that I can't remember because I was an idiot and didn't make a complete list of what I lost when I lost it like the dumbass I am.
I got a job about three weeks ago in a health food store, but shit, man, I'm surrounded by dumbass assholic men who smoke, drink, and all do drugs. I'm like an alien in compared to them. AT A HEALTH FOOD STORE. And. Spiders.
I can't finish a story to save my fricking life. I've been writing since before I knew how to write and still have the incomplete stories I made up over a decade ago, not because I don't work on them, but because I can't get shit out of my head! Even my fucking psychiatrist doesn't understand it!
On that note, I have a plethora of stories I'd like to tell but have no one here to tell. I completely lack a social life to the very meaning of the word and all of my four of my only friends are either not here or I've never met them. Though they are very good friends, they don't like 90% of the things I like.
...
You might know just how frustrating that is. And don't get me started on my family.
Fuck, listen, I'm out of time, here, and I want to put this up. I'm lost, okay? Lost. I spend every day doing nothing and literally, literally spend hours sitting on my bed doing nothing. Not because I don't want to do anything, but...well, hell if I know why! Fucking medication isn't working, no one seems to be listening to me about that, I have no more fucks to give, and why the hell can't I just have one thing, one simple desire fulfilled when it doesn't cost a goddamn thing?
All I want to do is finish a story.
I just want to finish one of my fucking stories.
I just want to freely write again.
But fine, I get the memo. Just like the deal with the Wiis, I'll just deal with the fact that it isn't going to be happening anytime soon.
Doesn't fucking help that I'm bloody paranoid at night. I think they are creeping about every-fucking-where, even under my bed, for fuck's sake. That's definitely new bloody territory. Never, ever, not even when I was a kid, did I think jack shit was under my bed.
All and all, I hate this year.
