Oh fuck, it is another morning of an another Sunday.
I should be credited for the will to live that I have despite all the undone dishes and ashes on the carpet trying to convince me to go back to bed. I truly deserve an award.
But I still need something to keep me motivated. Sex? Cigarettes? Snus? or my ADHD meds? Maybe better pair it with my anti-depressants just so I could recreate the aesthetics of the fucked-upness that those Substack losers fetishise?
I eat a carrot, it makes me sick. I then cook up some soup. My ex will come by the door to pick up her stuff, maybe I shouldn’t wear my Crocs?
So I cannot explain why I do what I do. Hey, maybe the only thing that matters is women and sex then? I mean, it makes me feel great. And every night out it is the only thing that seems to constitute a night I would call “good”.
Ah, right. Have you heard all the mesosphere double standard shit on how women aren’t supposed to sleep around but men can? And bunch of other theories and whatnot? I feel so torn every time I hear about them, but ironically I grew up with them. I recently got myself a book called A very Short Introduction on Love and hoped that it would heal my broken heart and maybe make my life easier when it comes to women. But why can’t all books just be one pagers? Because 11 pages out of 275 is clearly not enough to teach me whatever it is that I think I need to know or else I will go mental.
I pick up the Myth of Sisyphus, hoping that it would bring me comfort like it did a month ago when I read it for the first time. But then I realise it might just be a perspective I let myself get sold on to delude myself into feeling better?
Nobody says it but it is such a fine fucking art to not reason about things and to live with your gut. I think I can do the not thinking part but I don’t know if I have a gut. I mean what the fuck is even a gut.
Haters are actually cowards. They are the ones that are scared that their acceptance would call for an assimilation of them selves into another group that they see as inferior. I am definitely a hater, unfortunately. Apart from the mild annoyance that I get from people breathing, I have this fear that I a might just be one of those that I absolutely hate. I hate them because I think I might be one of them, and by this hatred I pretend the escape and distance.
Whatever makes you happy, King. My friend would say.
Rebel 