So many problems, waah, waah, waah. I get so fucking sick of it. Sick of every moment of happiness being spoiled by the knowledge that it will never last, because I'm not a cocksucking douchebag and that's apparently what's required.
Doubly-sick of the fact that I haven't even been able to write about those times when I've been happy, not even a little bit. And I have been happy, dammit. I've been happy a lot these last several months.
I also, of course, can't write about being sad, but I've still managed it from time to time. When it's too much to bear alone, I share it with you readers. Like right now. Spread it out or something. But still no specifics, still nothing telling.
I am a good person, after all. Not a cocksucking douchebag.
Lot of fucking good that's done me.
I wonder what would happen, if I just wrote right here, right now, about those things which have been bothering me lately. Especially this past week.
Would it be read?
Would it be understood?
Would it be believed?
Because I've been right here dealing with it, and I sure as fuck can't believe it.
I'm not going to write shit, though. It's not my place, not my job.
And I am a good person, like I said. And I will die alone and unloved despite that fact.
I need some goddamn resolve, that's what I need. So if any of you have any resolve to spare, can you help a brother out?
I'll pay you back double in a couple of months.