Venting

Right, I know all the tricks of the old masters to make people happy.
But I don't seem to be able to make myself happy.
Do I want to be happy? Really?
In this life,
this stretch of existence between here and there.
 
I have always felt that being happy, H-A-P-P-Y is a terribly vulgar thing, detestable, tasteless, dry and flaky, forced, unimaginative, empty, thin, threadbare, just plain boring.
It is much more ...beautiful, to suffer quietly, in solitaire, to look down or up instead of straight ahead.
But beauty too, is a state of perfect numbness.
Oh damn I just disclaimed the last thing that ties me to this place.

 

What should I be afraid of?
Abandon? Ignorance? Loneliness? Hunger? Despair? Poverty? Disease? Death? Hell? Heaven? Man?

Dear colleagues, we are going down the same drain anyway, why insist on the difference?
Yeah I know how they say it's the process that matters, guess what? Screw that.
The film that you see before you pass out you see,nah nah nah, not a flash back, it is your life, the reel recedes and catches on fire!

 

As long as I live, I will pay the price of living, while I still enjoy the pain, picking at the scars.

Wowwee, the beautiful downward spiral.

 

I despise humanity because I understand myself too well:
all the depravity that lies within here,
in this heart, in this mind,
the emblem of ungratefulness,of pure malice.

I am, I will, and sometimes I repent, yet I go on, wileful as ever.

Shameless.
Not unlike Britney Spears.