I don’t know. I don’t want to write.

My moral compass is broken.

My guardian angel is a fucking retard. Die, fucker.

I’m sticky, I wish I could shower.

Or bathe. Shower and then bathe. That would feel good.

But it’s hard work so I can’t.

I can’t work/study cuz that’s hard.

My soylent arrived.

Poetry is useless. I need a break from it. I can’t write poetry all the time, it makes me very angry. Being forced into the useless trash lifestyle.

Mom is mom. She harasses me and brainwashes me but I guess I’ll just ignore it.

I feel better. What?

Weird.

Sometimes you have to swear at the shits.

No I will not do it. Fuck you.

Stupid. You’re stupid.

I have to fit as much violence in these words as possible. Just to fix you.

But that’s proving challenging. You’re so broken.

Happy cultist.

That type of broken.

I want to jog.

I want to play tennis.

Lift weights.

It’s all hard work. I can’t do any of it.

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