The Obscure

Here I am at the end of another ridiculous day, filled with ridiculous things that my ridiculous mind could never express. Shall I unleash my atomic rage tonight, and destroy all living things in a maelstrom of fire and italian eatery?
I think I shall, I think tonight is the night.
The musical stylings of Count Basie and the chemical stylings of Count Klonopin fill my bloodstream tonight. These particular nights have been growing ever more frequent since my uncle died. I don't know if it is a direct result or if it is just happenstance. My mother told me I was grieving, I did not know to grieve meant to feel rotten with apathy.

I don't really have anything on my mind right now, but I don't think I ever really do. I wish that I could write the things I think are worth writing on here, or that I had the drive to write the things I think are worth writing in any case. Neither are so, therefore I just end up feeling useless and unintelligent.
Perhaps I will overdose on love and jellybeans, perhaps I will vomit up the blood of time!

It used to be that I could write for hours and not grow tired of it, never run out of things I wanted to squeeze out of my tiny mind. Those days, it appears, are gone. Now I'm lucky just to be able to think coherently.
I was talking to my mother the other day. I told her that I'm not as smart as she thinks I am. I had to tell her, I think she deserves to know.

Was it Portia who killed herself by swallowing hot coals? Man, what a way to go.