frankmask

I'm sitting here laughing at a book that isn't funny and that I don't particularly want to read because it's somewhat less distressing than dealing with my life. I don't really know what to do with my life. Most of the things I try don't work, and the ones that do have a remarkable habit of making things worse, or at least careening off wildly in unhelpful directions. Read like this is the rough equivalent of heavy drinking, except that I've just now reached the unfortunate realization that someone has been spiking my poteen with an unhealthy percentage of water, and I'm starting to sober up.

The result of which is a bizarre inclination to hide under a cover and stay there until it's all over and done with.

I think I need a sammich or something.

No one has ever convinced me that life is good. Most people stop at telling me that it's neccesary, and that I should quit being such a ninny and think of my country, and my progeny, and consider just how my (deceased) ancestors would feel if they saw me here, and how existentialism is a load of horse shit and you're only as happy as you feel and a whole steaming jug of other things. They go on for hours. It's ridiculous. And the thing that really drives me nuts is they never quite get around to explaining why it's worth all the bloody, muddy, messy trouble.

Oh... Right. Sammich.