Let’s see how much more of this I can take. Day three.

New paragraph. That’s a fucking

command, stupid.

Let me guess, I’m going to have to fight with the text editor, as well. My argument with life extends, without limitation, to all things everywhere. This place that I am at, this depression, this anger, this lethargy, hopelessness, bitterness, angst— I have two words for it: it sucks.

So, can we move on then? 

No, I don’t think so. As long as there is something in this world to bitch about, I am going to be the designated bitcher. Fuck you, text editor. Make me spell that out 100 times. It’s a word. I ought to know; I invented it. I am the ODB. (Original Designated Bitcher, not Old Dirty Bastard the rapper, although now that he's dead, perhaps the title is up for grabs.)

Oh my fucking God, I hate this. I can’t even get my rant on without having to bitch about something else that’s preventing me from getting my rant on, namely the text editor's fucked up interpretation of my fucked up thoughts, which are probably better off being left alone, locked up inside anyway.

“Express yourself.” Isn’t that what they say? Sure. And express your anal glands while you’re at it, why don’t you? It may be necessary, therapeutic even, but no one wants to see or know about it. Keep that shit to yourself. All these thoughts jumbling around in my head can just stay there and rot. What’s the use of putting them out there?

While we’re at it, I’ll address the elephant in my head: “Yes, I am fucking lazy. If there’s work to be done, I don’t want to do it. I feel like I’ve done enough work for two lifetimes, and now I just want to curl up in a ball and be done with it.”

And seriously, I am of the belief -- and this is what makes it true, that I believe it -- that nothing or no one in this world is going to make me happy. Not even someone coming to my door with a big cardboard check for a million dollars. What's a million dollars going to fix, anyway? It couldn't have saved Sharon, and it can't stop whatever is eating me alive from continuing to do so.

I can't tell myself any story that I will believe that involves me succeeding or has a happy ending with me in it. I have an easier time personalizing random events into some kind of cosmic conspiracy against me. Those are the kind of stories I tend to believe. So am I creating my own reality then? I don't think so. Things are whatever they are, despite whatever I may believe about them. But to my perception, sure, I tend to buy into a negative outlook, which makes the world that I see a very dark, depressing, lonely place.

Aaaa-nd. Cut. End scene. 

 

I'm still in the As, as far as my Ipod driven self-termination sequential playlist goes. Yesterday, I finished up with Achey-Breaky Heart, and today I listened to Acid (binaural beats) through Adagio Sostenudo (from some random collection of love songs Sharon downloaded). Sharon downloaded a lot of things, whole discographies of artists I may only marginally like at best, which I must now dutifully slog through. If I make it to the Cs without blowing my brains out, I'll be surprised (and somewhat disappointed). But a deal's a deal. This game of musical chairs presumably ends with me dead, so I may as well play it as long as I can.

I've not been remembering my dreams these past few days. I have a vague sense that I am still having them, but I can't string together two sentences to describe them. So it's back to bitching about my persistent everyday reality for the time being. That's a gift that keeps on giving. My all-season friend, the Ingratitude Journal. Sorry, readers. I know I'm insufferable. I wouldn't blame you for bailing now, before this rot begins to infect your mind by osmosis.