He's sipping coffee in his white mug that has, "merry christmas" written on it, when it is not even Thanksgiving yet. This really pisses him off. The littlest things piss him off now a days. He feels like this job is never going to end and he'll always be working for a weekend that doesn't exist; for a break that was never there.

The office walls become blurred after he takes his medication. He lies and tells the doctor that he's depressed but the thing is, he's just bored. He wants to take the meds to add some spunk to his life but all they do is make everything blurred. The first few weeks that he took them, he enjoyed them and felt lighter inside. Now that it's been 3 years, he feels like the blurriness is apart of his life and when things are normal, he thinks he's sick and that he's going crazy.

He spins around and takes a look at Margaret who has cherry red lipstick smeared on the left side of her mouth. She looks like she made out with an old man who wanted to have some excitement in his life. She's a nice lady but she annoys the shit out of him. She talks of her problems like if they're stories about what she ate for dinner last night. She goes into full detail and doesn't stop until she makes sure you know exactly what she felt deep inside and the emotional outburst that she wants from you. He usually just acts like he understands but he really doesnt. He knows that this is the only part of his day that will get some sort of a twist. The stories are never the same so he enjoys them. He hates the way she needs the emotion though. She winces when she sees someone taken back by what a huge deal she made about her story. She acts like she agrees with them and slowly slugs her way into the restroom and cries to herself. He knows this because she comes out with red eyes that are still filled with tears. She sniffles to herself when she's back at her desk.

He goes back to look at his desk. There is nothing there to make it look like he's ever been alive. He has no family pictures. No picture of his dog. No calender or agenda to show how busy he is. He only has big folders filled with unnecessary words and a computer that won't work for shit. He opens up the word processor and starts his story...


"Why don't I give a fuck about anyone? Yesterday my sister called telling me that I was going to be an uncle and the first thing I felt was annoyed. Why do I care? Is it my baby? Will I even see the baby on any other occasions except for birthdays and holidays? No. So don't tell me that I'm going to be an uncle like I have some sort of fuck left for a moment like this.

Anyways, yesterday I woke up with my door pulled off the hinges. I think I'm addicted to my meds and the way they make my life appear. I'm being very literal. I like the way that my life is blurred when I am on them. My sight changes because I know that my body doesn't need any of this happy pill bullshit. I keep telling my doctor that my roommate is stealing my meds so that I need a new prescription for all of them. I have doubled up on them so that I can take more quicker. Next week I'll need to come up with a better excuse on why I need a new prescription. I'll tell them that my mom died or some shit like that. Whatever gets me the damn pills. I sort of feel like I should be put into a mental hospital now a days. I'm becoming a sociopath. Or I more or less dont give a shit about people and what theyre about and what happens to them. I wouldn't kill anyone. I don't have time to waste like that. But I'm at the point where I'm pretty sure that if I saw someone dieing, I'd throw my cigarette at them and tell them to have a good last smoke. Who am I?


Tomorrow I may enter myself into a mental hospital because I can't stand anymore of Margaret's stories. They make me want to take the lipstick that she puts on so horribly, and stick it in her eye. Her crying pisses me off and sometimes I want to yell, "SHUT THE FUCK UP" when i hear her sobbing. I don't care if she's lonely or her husband is cheating on her with some hot white chic with an ass at the bar that i saw yesterday..."

he took out the usb card that he had in his coat pocket that he usually takes his work in, and puts his document in there to finish at home. Today he is deleting every microsoft excell list that he's ever made and all of the ones that are due by the end of the week. He's made his decision, he's going to the mental hospital and he's going to enjoy his stay there like a real fucking lunatic would.

He gets in the elevator and watches as his boss looks at him strangely because he is leaving three hours earlier than his job allows him to. In his head all he thinks is "yeah that's right fucker, i AM leaving 3 hours early and if youre going to fire me, you'd only make my day better." He walks into the deep cold and takes off his jacket like if it were 75 degrees in the summer. Everyone walks by him with the most curious looks on their faces and he yells, "yes i am fucking walking home in a fucking shirt and a shirt only." He gets home and turns on the computer. He needs to call the suicide hotline to see what idiot is working for them today and how they'll help him deal with the loss of his pet fish who he plans to kill himself over...


"I'm home and I'm on the phone. This fucking idiot thinks I'm going to kill myself over a nonexistent pet fish that i "felt" was the most important thing in my life right now because no one gives a shit about me. So many people give a shit about me that I don't really care if I'm cared about anymore. If I killed myself it would be because I'm too fucking good for this world and not because I'm 'lonely'. Let's all just take a fucking smoke and relax and not give a fuck.

The guy on the phone is telling me that later on in life I will have a beautiful house and wife with some children to take care of. I'm screaming my head off because I say that no girl ever looks at me and I'm a huge loser with a big dick but no one would know because no one has ever tried to look. I can hear him try not to laugh. This guy must be new. I like him already. Yeah I even screamed the word dick. I want to tell him, "bro im just fucking with you, have a good day." but then I get tired and hang up anyway.

I just searched for the yellow pages hoping that they'll have a section on mental hospitals with a 1800 number and with a slogan that has something like "when you'll leave, you'll feel like it was a vacation from life..." But all I can find is dentist offices for children and someone to clean out my fucking pipes. I call the suicide hotline and the same guy answers. I ask him if he has a number to one of those mental hospitals that is cheap and will take care of me like if i were in vegas at the trump hotel. He tells me that he has a number and that I should call right away. I do call and I tell them how I think I'm on the verge of hurting everyone who is around me and how depressed I am that I want to go screaming down the streets naked because I think that that will get everyones attention and I will feel loved again. They admit me and I tell them I'll be over in five minutes. It's 2 hours from my apartment. When I get there I'll be the fucking king and I'll make sure that I make my stay last..."

As I was logging in, I felt the need to punch in my old password for my myspace account. What? What is a "myspace"? It was the website of a younger generation. We flip flop like fish when it comes to new trends. Some do it more than others. We have what we have and we take advantage of the possibilities that are lurking around when we just take our minds out of the world of the internet. Yes, I know I'm on the internet but I'm here for a reason. This is a semi-diary. Why wouldn't it be in a book? I have no clue. I think I feel more comfortable on here. (hence the fact that i grew up in a generation where the internet was life).


Am I interrupting something? Should I hand you the microphone? Am I the one who is between two strong powers, holding two things from each other. Am I the force that prevents the positive magnets from attracting? I look at my dreams and I no longer see them far from what reality really is. Yes. Yes, you are right, I am talking in a secretive manner. I will be as obtuse as I possibly can be. I feel sick to my stomach the first few minutes and then I realize how ridiculous it is to feel this way at such a young age. Where are your dreams when these thoughts flood into your head? Theyre pushed to the back of my mind. I won't let them ever be second place to anything or anyone. I'm sorry but this is the way things go.


I'm so sick of complaints. I'm so sick of tattling. I can't stand the way you talk anymore. I don't even like watching you type things on the internet. I'm getting tired of everything faster than ever imagined.


I'm freezing in the beginnings of the mountainsides. I can feel the wind brush against my arms and legs even though there is no wind in my house.. All of my windows are shut and the heater is on. I thrive on things like this, it's like fresh blood is entering my body and my life is becoming more of my own and nooneelses. How ever the fuck you spell that word...I keep listening to John Legend thinking that he'll say something that will be anything like what I'm feeling right now but just like I've said before, we all take things different ways and if you are not in my shoes at this time and this moment then you will not have a single ounce of what I am feeling right now. You might have felt this in the summer and she may have felt it at her friend's house and he may have felt it in a bar on a drunken night that was sweating the weight off of everyone's mind. We may feel these things to a certain point but you will not feel the soreness in my neck and how my sweater feels against my arms and how cold I am when I am feeling like this. Understand? You should.


I'm not sure how much I can write anymore. All of this seems to be a talent that I've lost long ago. I can't write poems anymore. I can't write short stories. I hate reading other people's writing unless I like them. I feel like everyone is trying to be the writer that I am and the writer that I am not. When will I win? It still has been so long but that doesn't mean my feelings have changed...



This is a repeat of your life, restart and try again.

I'm here sucking on a strawberry. It's almost as if eating it won't make a difference. I want the color red to fill my mouth. I want it to drip down like fresh blood and I want it to taste good. I'm imagining myself in some type of horror movie, it's ridiculous, I know.

In reality, these strawberries are sweet with a small hint of dirt. I know what dirt tastes like, I was a kid once. My hair is greasy and messed up and it smells like flowers. The back of my hair stands up because I keep pushing it in different directions. It doesn't know which way to go.

I keep deciding if I want to walk to Dr. Strange records but I can never fully make up my mind. The moment I pick up my bag to start walking there, I make up an excuse not to go, and the moment I put my bag down, I make up an excuse to pick it back up and walk out of the door.

This time change is constantly messing me up. It makes me feel almost as if I'm running late on everything that's due. Nothing is due.



Here is my rant of the day. You're welcome

strength.

What does strength mean to you? Does it mean dealing with argumentative parents? Does it mean overcoming a relationship? Does it mean working through school?


Let me know your thoughts.