The suicide fantasies are bad lately. Why is this such a struggle for me? There is such a lack of purpose here, a dearth of meaning to anything and everything I'm in contact with, which ain't much.
I'm pushing through her last two weeks, a race and some ridiculous beach vacation and I guess I'll reevaluate it all afterwards if I'm unlucky enough to make it through.
My music goes nowhere because of me.
My love life goes nowhere because of me.
My scale goes nowhere because of me.
I'm going nowhere because of me.
Upheaval threatens on so many fronts and all I need or want is shelter and quietude. I want a hug more than I want sex.
Are these empty words too:
There are listeners out there for me.
There is a girlfriend out there for me.
There is a goal weight out there for me.
There is a happiness for me.
Now to try to get an hour of sleep before I go back into the fray at this dead end, intellectually barren paycheck factory.
