Friday, May 3, 2013

Life is but a sick joke played on those that dream.

I suppose I'll just get right into it. I didn't check to see what I wrote about in the previous entry, doesn't matter. For those of you that still read this; hello. I haven't been writing because I've been busy being up and down, left and right, all around. Let's cut the shit, life is shitty. It's what you do in between those inevitable slaps in the face that make it worth living. Well, what if you don't feel like you're making use of that time? I don't know. I feel that way, then I started to just look forward to those slaps in the face. I'm a masochist. As much as I'd hate to admit it I have grown accustomed to all of the let downs, heart breaks, failures, manic episodes, depressions, mood swings, complete and total shittyness of life. I organize my life around those (you know, life sucking), because you're fucking blind if you think you're invincible from any of that. What do I do in between that? I write about it, I sing(?) about it, I write music for it, I catalogue each and every one of those times where I stared into the barrel of an imaginary gun and wanted to blow my brains out. "Do what makes you happy" seems to be the saying of anyone who s looking on the bright side that day. Well, I do what makes me happy and then something or someone (or even my self) fucks it all up.

I haven't talked to my mother in almost 7 months. I doubt I will. I'm slowly finding out that I have severe trust issues (brought on upon years of abandonment, negligence, and unfaithfulness), all this is the catalyst for every argument I have with someone (or again, my self) I find is being shitty to me. I don't think it's being made up ib my head, I've never been a push over and that's probably why not a lot of people like me but I'm alright with being that person that sits in a room of people all kissing each others asses.

I've lost the desire to write.

Maybe you'll hear from me again, maybe not.

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