I live for SHIT. Things are pretty cool, though.
Tonight I drink until hopefully I choke on my own vomit.
Sing me a song.
If I could recall the good feelings (hell, I know I even had a really nice one yesterday) I would be okay. There's nothing like the present to kill the joys of the past, though. I don't believe in the future. Pleasure and happyness and understanding and all of the things which make life worth doing are fleeting illusions. The only reality is the screaming black hungry hole tearing at my innards like some back alley dog in a garbage can.
Yesterday's warm and fuzzy feeling was the first I've seen in months. It was soothing. It awakened dreams of how waking up in the morning can lead on to good things. Sometimes I think that all this emptyness is worth those fiew brief moments when I taste the substance of living. It's powerful stuff when it's there but, like a junky, I twitch and scream and brutalize my friends when it's gone. It never stays for long. Somehow my friends still love me in spite of my persistent irrational bitterness.
Somehow, I simply can't seem to feel the warmth. I slather myself in sunlight trying to fill myself with that ancient nectar of life. I have absolutely glorious friends who never fail me and to whom I am devoted utterly. I am a talented and capable man: a skilled musician, a relatively admirable writer. I am even good company and people rarely fail to like me. I have a diabolical and highly practical plan which will see me living the good life without once having to step on somebody else's back. So why this clawing emtyness in my gut?
My bed is cold and empty, but this is a small thing. It will be full again.
I want to fuck everyone in the world.
Now, sing me a fucking song.
Tonight I drink until hopefully I choke on my own vomit.
Sing me a song.
If I could recall the good feelings (hell, I know I even had a really nice one yesterday) I would be okay. There's nothing like the present to kill the joys of the past, though. I don't believe in the future. Pleasure and happyness and understanding and all of the things which make life worth doing are fleeting illusions. The only reality is the screaming black hungry hole tearing at my innards like some back alley dog in a garbage can.
Yesterday's warm and fuzzy feeling was the first I've seen in months. It was soothing. It awakened dreams of how waking up in the morning can lead on to good things. Sometimes I think that all this emptyness is worth those fiew brief moments when I taste the substance of living. It's powerful stuff when it's there but, like a junky, I twitch and scream and brutalize my friends when it's gone. It never stays for long. Somehow my friends still love me in spite of my persistent irrational bitterness.
Somehow, I simply can't seem to feel the warmth. I slather myself in sunlight trying to fill myself with that ancient nectar of life. I have absolutely glorious friends who never fail me and to whom I am devoted utterly. I am a talented and capable man: a skilled musician, a relatively admirable writer. I am even good company and people rarely fail to like me. I have a diabolical and highly practical plan which will see me living the good life without once having to step on somebody else's back. So why this clawing emtyness in my gut?
My bed is cold and empty, but this is a small thing. It will be full again.
I want to fuck everyone in the world.
Now, sing me a fucking song.
sindred:
Ha, I wish my bed was WARM and empty. The hubby said my teeth grinding has slacked off some, he said it used to be really loud. I'm debating sleeping in the guest room tonight. I think some people were just meant to sleep alone. I'm not really a cuddler. Maybe I should get laid and drop out of work, then the grinding would stop. 