Poetry

The Fall, 17 (261.)

I’m like some kind of super meek Hunter S. Thompson, with all of the weird insanity and mental instability but none of the brains, grit, or drugs. I know I’m too hard on myself, but I really think I have halfway decent thoughts in my head, and instead of sharing them I tamp them down. Where’s my brain, where’s my bravery, where’s my fucking mouth? It can be a weapon against evil, I just know it, but I’d rather stare at a computer screen all day than do the shit that’s important. Bless me, everyone, for I have wasted a ton of time. I suppose I’ll call it a sin. Hell doesn’t have to be ennui or other people when I’m this good at punishing myself.

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