So I guess I’m living life my way. I insist upon it, and do it. But that’s mostly indulging in media on the computer. Trying to get as much diversity and news about the world from the internet as possible. To feed my mind.

I don’t want to read.

I’m fucking horrified of ever returning to the science industry, it’s all menial labor unless you have a PhD and post-doc. They don’t respect the intelligence of the lower ranks at all. It’s so corrupt.

I can’t think of anything I’d want to do.

Life has nothing to offer me.

It’s sad, that this is it. This is the end of the road. (No, I’m not killing myself). There’s just nowhere to go from here.

And I don’t see serendipity shining on me any time soon. I’m not a very lucky person.

There’s no chance of meeting young people my age who are cool and kind of like-minded.

I don’t see where I would go to increase the odds of that happening.

I have a mild stomach ache from overconsumption of decaf coffee.

I had two caffeinated coffees. I think that may help me not crave so many decafs.

Just a hypothesis.

It’s so amazing how truly difficult it is in life to get a hold of good information, true knowledge. Things have so many variables, so often, and you can’t conclude anything, logically. It sucks.

My life is meaningless. I don’t know what to do.

I have an appointment (final one) with my previous psychiatrist, next Friday.

Then my new psychiatrist the following Monday.

Brother is no help, he doesn’t talk to me. We never talked as kids though. We just played games together. So I don’t know why I would expect it to be different. He’s probably too shy and not comfortable talking to me because of this reason, there’s no precedent, it’s new. Baby brother considers me a total stranger.

They’ve had lives I am not aware of.

And yet I feel like I know them.

I don’t know. I’m comfortable with them. Must be a bigger brother bias I’ve got.

My life is meaningless. I suffer. I don’t know what to do.

I wish I could find some craft. But do I? Really? Deep down inside?

I don’t think I do. If I want to be honest with myself, I think I’d rather lay in bed the whole rest of my life and dream dreams until I’m dead. I’m so much happier asleep. I can feel it, in my dreams.

Reality is harsh and pointless.

This is why I enjoyed opiates so much. They let you dream during the day. It’s so romantic. Ugh. I wish there were a way to make them safe, recreationally.

Fuck. I miss kratom. I realize the addiction spiraled out of control and it was making me fatigued and just craving it non-stop with no high. You have to take breaks. I didn’t have the will to do that. So I had to quit. Forcefully, with the aid of medication. Fuck. I am a creature of habit, to the bitter end.

I don’t see the point in poetry. I want it to bring me success. I want poetry, to be my career, to be paid for my work.

But no one is ever going to pay me for my poetry. That’s a pipe dream.

Or maybe I just need to advertise my book. What if there are hordes of people out there who think like me (pessimistic, hard-logical yet hot-emotional, frank to a point, brutally frank) who want to hear my voice and just don’t know it yet? How do I reach them but by advertising?

Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in this world. I should’ve lived in the Victorian era. Never mind that the facts say that quality of life then was superbly worse.

I miss life. I miss meaning. I don’t know. Am I thinking too much? Should a different part of my brain be engaged? The action-do things part? Working with my hands? I don’t manipulate objects much anymore.

And I slouch at the computer. It’s going to give me a hunch, I just know it. I’m so scared.

Nothing is rewarding and there’s nothing I can do but keep going on.

It’s cruel, having family ties.

I’ve had dreams, in my more idealistic days, of like, what if my family were dead and I had no ties on Earth. Nothing to hold me back. I’d kill myself. Out of romanticism. It’s so mysterious! No one to grieve me. The freedom to die. Right to death. Isn’t it hampered these days? Death is release from pain. When it’s unethical to live. Does no one else see it this way? Am I the only sane one? Hah. Sanity. Right. Like I know anything about that.

We just brought dad home from BART. That’s the bay area train system. He’s going on and on about a lot in Florida he’s going to buy with our help and then build a house, not on his own but hiring constructors, and then making a profit. It’s a nice plan. I’m glad he finds it so easy to make chump change. If a hundred thousand dollars is chump change. It is to me. You can’t retire with a hundred thousand. It’s so weird. Life is so expensive. Life is perhaps the most expensive thing.

I don’t know. I need to attend the Monday night poetry thing on meetup but, I don’t like how it’s formatted. And the people are so hard and cold. None of them are really warm and easy to relate to.

Well anyway, my dad’s happiness rubbed off on me. A little. I’m glad to see him happy, and safe.

I have to figure out what to do with my life. Even if I mooched off of brother’s income (he’s wealthy-ish), I’d have to occupy myself. What if I did independent studies of math and physics? Just like, got the equivalent of PhD’s but on my own. That would be really cool.

But my risperidone gives me akathisia so I can’t read, I don’t have the attention span or focus. Do you know how painful it is to not be able to read? I feel robbed.

I was really paranoid last night.

I still hear people’s voices in my head. But to some extent I think it’s normal. They’re just thoughts.

As long as it’s not too vivid.

What else can I say.

I don’t know what to do today. I’m supposed to be studying on DataCamp. I don’t really like data science. I’m just clinging to it as my only career opportunity. I’d really have to think outside the box to figure out how else to make money. Jesus. I don’t know, man. It’s rough. I wish my poetry were profitable. Sincerely. That’s my really career–poet.


I give up. I could go on keeping pulling things out of my ass and writing them down here, but what’s the point.

As with all things, it’s meaningless.

C’est la vie.

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