I am truly unique. An alien. A dark star in an infinite galaxy of meaninglessness. Every action I take or do not take causes the inevitable to come closer/go further away. I have no solid rock. There is no constant but me. I have no trust in anyone but myself. And I hate myself. I am going to die, sooner moreso than later, and there's nothing I can do but worry about it.

I am a stark, cold, bitter realist. And the black coffee has gone cold. But I drink it anyway.



Isolation, loneliness, and introspection kind of rule over me now. I try to find some pleasures in the time I have left. I love music. David Bowie, Morrissey. Beck. I escape into other people's worlds. I love to read. Twain, Vonnegut. I can't handle my reality so I enter their's. I adore the dark humor. I can find just about anything funny, if only on a cosmic level. I study these people I consider geniuses, hoping to emulate them, while at the same time being painfully self-aware of the limits I have. Ignorance really would be bliss. I live with my middle-aged (?) Mom, and we rely on each other. I don't feel like I ever was young, nor had the chance to be, and it's a cold thought. And it's probably my own fault.