I don’t know if anyone reads me. But I’ll let the readers pile up.

Had work today. Fuck. I don’t know what to say. I’m terrible. I’m just a terrible person.

So that’s what Rob said. He was joking. For not calling in sick when I had my psychotic epsiode recently. He was triggered because I didn’t show up, and I didn’t call. Someone died on him once like that. They were to show up, they didn’t, three days later they were found dead. Or Rob was alerted of their death, I suppose, contrariwise.

I just. I don’t. I don’t know. I had an emotional breakdown at work today. As usual I don’t think I’m suited for this job. It’s too hard and I’m not tough enough. After the work was done I felt alright. But running into it, I didn’t stand a chance. Fuck. My panic is amazing. I cry on the inside. It’s fucked. I don’t know what to do. Just thinking about having to repeat it on my own, fuck, I didn’t even do all the work today, I just realized Rob did most of the pipetting. I’m fucked. I have to do the whole run myself next week because he’s on vacation. Or out somewhere nearby in the Bay but another part.

I’m so fucked.

I don’t know what to say. You invulnerable other. Reading this. I love you, but seriously? My brothers. Fuck. I fucked over Andre. I didn’t show much appreciation of his brotherhood when he needed it. Alex was a much better brother, and he was still distant. Andre was so alone. It wasn’t fair. Why didn’t he ask to be cool with me? Or what? Why didn’t he ask his questions, or talk to me? I could’ve been there for him. He didn’t even give me a chance.

Jesus. I’m not crying. What. The. Fuck.

I’m gonna go downstairs and turn off the coffee machine. Probably chug the decaf.

Fuck my addictions. Wow. Why.

I don’t. This is devolving. And you see, the functional requirements of reality shine, and the ideals are destroyed. This is the nature of things. It is fucked.

I give. Sorry. You win.

I’m just planning on sharting around the house for today. Not really doing much of much. Relaxing. If alternating between upstairs and downstairs like a neurotic wreck can be considered relaxing.

But I guess it is. I don’t know what to say anymore. I think writing is just digging me deeper. It feels like it is. This is honestly part of the habits I had from my good life in college. I’m not allowed to say where I studied, that would give me away.

I don’t know what to say. I’m tired of swearing I guess.

There’s not much to do.

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