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I Can’t Do This Forever

Well fuck.

Fuck me if I know what to do.

What is this eternal conflict?

EXPLAIN!

No, no, I’m just restless. And in touch with the war.

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT! EXPLAIN FOR ONCE! DON’T GO ALL MINIMALIST ON ME AGAIN!

Yeah, sure…

People say, there’s more good and beauty than there is death, evil, and ugly in the world.

But I disagree.

Strongly.

WHAT!?

Yeah.

Boner, don’t get me off. Just fuck yourself and go grab a beer.

WHAT!?

Shut up. You’re digressing. You were supposed to lead this conversation. I mouth off. Fuck off.

Exactly. Who is there to interact with when the pussies (God I hate that word) set a bad example (not out of malice, of course), and the belligerent ones set a bad example, and like, who else do you have?

I’m just tryin’ a get by without a sense of peace anymore. I won’t say life is tough, ’cause that’s a cliche, but, y’know, porn sex drugs, fuck fuck fuck, the scissor blades like your throat, and, cuppola of the hot macha in the morn’?

Sure. I understand.

WHAT!?

lol

I give up. I can’t write forever.

But that was like three minutes of writing!

I know. Exactly. Short attention span, restlessness, immediate bang for your buck, fuck fuck fuck, and you know, cum dumps on the airplane and lots of cobwebs all over your mouthless pussy-ass face dicksuckin’ mouth.

Huh. Int’resting.

No, not really.

Why you disagree all the time?

It’s constructive. Breaking things makes them stronger. Especially ideas and opinions.

Well… that makes sense, and is quite zen, but on the latter half, do you mean to say that you try to make opinions stronger? Are you trying to reinforce the bias?

Now we’re getting somewhere.

Well, I’ll just say it:

 

I need to larn (lol, larn) to compose. Music, that is.

Fuck it. It’s never enough anyway.

That’s fine. Go your own way.

No thank you, I’m staying right here. Fuck yourself.

Dirty mouth, you.

Yeah, dirty planet. What’s worse?

Lesser of two evils?

No, just… argh! Why you gettin’ so smartass with me! What did I ever do to you!?

You’re a loudmouth with a bad attitude.

Fuck yourself.

 

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This place is sort of the unofficial log of my schizophrenia. I am diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder but I’m not depressed anymore so I think the diagnosis should be changed to bona fide schizophrenia but they didn’t do that because psychiatry is an ineffectuate shitshow. I can’t stay in my room too long because of the ants. What I mean is, there aren’t actual ants here, but I am antsy. I am restless. I can’t just sit or stand and enjoy being alive. I am not happy to be alive. There is nothing to be happy about, and I am not happy about nothing. My mood is not too good. The voices show hints of starting in the afternoon and progress pretty seriously, regularly, in the evening. So that’s like around four to five or probably sooner is more accurate, as I am wont to dumb things down and make everything seem rosy when it’s not. No one knows who I am, and they say they understand my condition but they don’t. My dad doesn’t even think I have one. He’s opted for the conspiracy theory one, where the government intelligent agencies are using advanced technology to disrupt my cognitive patterns. His too. He has schizophrenia, paranoid, but his is undiagnosed and he doesn’t want to believe it’s a medical condition. He’s never done drugs so he has no idea how powerful the human mind is. I have so I have a hint, but even if I hadn’t I think I would still be convinced it’s a medical condition. But I’m not. When I’m schizophrenic, I believe voices are real, and I’ve given up trying to explain how they happen. I.e. what their mechanism is. So my condition is calling and I can’t write anymore right now. My instincts are fucked, I get called by them to get up and walk down the stairs, go outside, vape a few minutes, go back inside, sit at the computer, realize I have nothing to do here, vape a little, go back outside downstairs, repeat the whole process ad nauseum. I can’t read. I envy, really really, people who love reading. It’s such a rewarding peaceful thing. My mind is not at peace. I have to go back to work in a month and I hope I will probably be able to, but I don’t anticipate my condition leaving any time soon. I think this may be permanent. I think I just don’t have a life anymore.