Fuck Subjects Fuck Off

Nothing feels wrong. I dunno that anything emotes any response. I feel so naturally cold and outside.

I want to write more. I write a lot but delete and burn most of it. It's mostly garbage I think. I like Smckey Robinson. I need to finish something. I keep working on nothing and nothing ever becomes something. I lack, cohesion and conclusion.

Today I woke up and untied my pink handcuffs. I was told that I was bold and legit unforgivable. I wouldn't forgive me. Shouty and forgotten. No. Cannot. A life change.

Today I woke up and visited town. I had dinner with my mother. It was actually good, not just mundane or moribund as it has been for a while. She was chirpier tonight. I was too. I spoke out loud. I existed which she liked. We talked a bit about my wall of personality. My father, politics, Christianity and terrorism, of all things. I had a good night. I was really glad to see her not through obligation.

I came home, and got / getting / am drunk.

I drink tonight. I can't explain why or to whom. I just, not want or need, but I dunno, I just had some beer. There is no 'Friday' excuse, nor any excuse nor reason lieu. Nor do I feel like I should verbalise one. Why mention it? I don't know.

I don't know. This week I've felt very much stuck. This encompassing feeling of imminent demise and ... collapse, is nothing new nor will it go away. I deal.

This ain't no holiday.