fff

I have to indulge in the beauty of living by myself. I live with my parents, but they aren’t a part of my life. Typing is hard. My fingers are brittle. Flat statements.

I have to get used to being alone. Severely alone. There’s no such thing as 100% alone because it can always get aloner. More alone. You can always be more alone than before.

I’m more alone than before. I’m severely alone. Now throw in some artistic metaphors. My brain doesn’t work like that. I’m not an artistic bitch.

There might be perks. I’ll just have to figure out what they are. But I won’t until they pop up. And I guess I will have to trudge along for a while first before I can know why being alone is awesome. Presuming it is. Of course it is. I remember it being so. I just forgot. Gosh, it’s only been like 10 years and I already forgot. I have no memory.

I’m just sitting here. I know you’re leaving me alone. Thank you. I was, just in case you were wondering, I’m just sitting here. Starting at the floor. Dead.

Amber. I had so many ideals about her personality. I knew who she was on the inside. But maybe those were secrets I was not allowed to know.

The people I have met. Kenny. Karl. Catherine. Morgan. You know.

I don’t know what to say. It’s not something in reference to them. It may be something in reference to a flower, or a snowflake. Or a wave on a lake. On wave. Waving goodbye.

I have to get used to being alone. I can’t be a parasite on my family like this anymore. They don’t care I mean they’ll manufacturing line me out, here’s your care and tender love, opah opah.

There is so much in these words. I don’t normally take my time. I have been sitting here pondering–that is the wrong word, but whatever the depression form of pondering is–for half an hour now. Real writers take hours to decide on their words. I’m a baby. I should be publishing and famous. But that just shows that the successful ones these days are also babies, have no idea what real literature is.

No one does.

My cartouche.

I always expect more, don’t I.

Mr. Card Shop Owner, why did you go out of business.

I always expect more (don’t I?).

This December we’ll sing.

The songs will lull our riba riba riba is Russian for fish. Grow some.

What does it call itself when it hits.

Too fast. Slow down. Too fast.

Sigh. I’m sorry…

I have to go in to work, lab, for some tedious manual labor, organizing tubes of biological samples, marking them with a Sharpie, entering their IDs into a computer spreadsheet that’s not Excel. For about an hour, about an hour from now.

I don’t know how I feel about all this. On the one hand I wonder if there’s some way for me to just call it quits and be permanently sick and unemployed, on disability and get some money from the government. My doctors know I can work, they don’t want it easy for me though. Cruel pricks.

But it’s like and I’m imagining it as if it were a book, these dual worlds, at home depressed, and at work functional.

I can’t really imagine the other when I’m in the one. Or vice versa.

We need to reserve some instruments but they’re all taken. Blah. It makes me nervous.

I am so nervous about so much and that is why I either don’t want to be a part of this, or don’t want to be alive.

I don’t care how important, whose life these medications are savings, whatever fuck fuck shit. Who cares. I feel like shit and if I am in charge of my own life, which increasingly it feels like I am not, you can guarantee know that I will be doing this just for the money. I may retire early, at that. I may figure out a way to live with mom somewhere and none of us are working. Not fair to her, who toiled her whole life miserably. I should at least do some mild not so bad stuff. Right?

Fuck I hate capitalism. Fuck I hate my job. Fuck I hate life.

Man. Everything is so terrible. And the idiots trying to cheer me up… I say not. I can not. I wonder how.

After all.

Well I have to leave in an hour. To me that means I have an hour to live. I don’t spend my time alive valuably. I’m unhappy most of the time and really there’s no value in anything. I need to talk to my psychiatrist more seriously next time. Video chat please. We did phone and the appointment was FIFTEEN MINUTES LONG. What the fuck. In out bam. He makes the money I get the pharma drugs. Nothing changes.

Nothing ever changes, does it. It’s so sad.

I give up on this post because this doens’t make a difference, either! I’ll be working on a short story for the next issue of our literary magazine, though. Hmm. So many dreams dashed.

Wicked souls. Wicked situations.

So many sufffer so much…

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