I’ve been blogging for… probably fucking, I don’t know, fifteen years now.

I have 15 followers.

What the fuck.

I’ve deleted my followers list several times, but still, I’d expect more growth than that.

I have no one to blame but the blogosphere itself. I’ve been putting out content related to my personal life this whole time, being sincere and open, and sometimes poetic, trying to craft words that mean something and are relatable to those who are in a similar situation. I’ve fought taboos about swear words and bad words, I try to keep my vocabulary free of moral absolutism, and this is where it’s got me…

Fifteen followers.

I’m seeing my worth in numbers, though, which I’ve heard is not a good thing. But I want a reward. It’s not just a number. It means something. It’s a numeric manifestation of how many people you have in your life, who you communicate with, and how rich your social circle is, more or less. And mine is fucking dead. I have a few folks who like my stuff and comment occasionally. But I don’t feel connected to anyone. Increasing the odds, is all I’m thinking.

I don’t shower. I haven’t showered in weeks. I hate easy small things, because for me they’re hard and large.

Can you smell my body odor through the internet? Is this what this is about?

Judgmental pricks.

;-)

But really, I don’t know what to do. I’ve had confidants before, what a rich and amazing experience that always is. I’ve loved every one. For one reason or another they have to leave my life, I guess that’s how confidants work. I wish they could’ve stayed longer.

I have nothing to keep me alive anymore. There’s nothing driving me. I’m supposed to exercise daily but, what about the philosophical argument that a forced life is a fake life? Can anyone solve this riddle for me? And no way in hell am I genuinely becoming motivated to work out. I don’t see that happening.

I don’t move much during my day. I make a lot of decafs.

I want some sort of art in my life. There’s nice stuff on reddit, but it’s not enough. I don’t know. I need a hobby. Poetry supposedly is mine, but I don’t like it. It’s not rewarding and so often I’m lacking creative juice. No one appreciates my writing, either. I haven’t sold a single copy of my book. It’s fucking misery. Why.

My psychiatrist told me to journal. I journal, ass fuck, but I thought maybe you’d be interested in helping me like your career is supposed to. Guess not.

Fuck. I never thought my only asset, my blog, my only real asset, would die just like everything else.

Existence is suffering. Life never should have happened in the universe. It’s a curse. On a massive scale.

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