Misery

i've been prescribed some fukitol by my dammitologist.

Misery fucking loves company. I never fully understood until now. Don't try to make my life a fucking hell just because you can't deal with your fucked up problems. Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone? I don't do shit to you so back the fuck off before I snap and you end up knocked out. God just GO AWAY!!

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Thank misery, the years I've lost, the drinks I've served the friends I've tossed, thank misery

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Five in the morning. Walking to a place I know of that's unlocked and sheltered where I can lay down and get a little sleep. Backpack straining my shoulders. Shoes and trench coat damp around the edges from walking through high, dew-covered grass. Crossing through yet another empty parking lot. Watching my shadow linger behind me, then rush past me as I walk under and past street lights. My lips form soft sentences that I mutter to myself without thinking.

"It seems like I can be comfortable with a certain level of misery."

"And nothing below it."

Only later do I think about what I had said. And I'm embarassed that I can put whiny teenage angsty emo Livejournalists to shame with my melodrama sometimes.

Meh. Whatever. At least I don't want attention and I'm working on figuring myself out. That redeems me for being a cliche stereotypical depressed masochistic kid, right?

View Thinker #77406d's profile

I hope so, otherwise we're going to be working at an Abercrombie and Fitch together in hell.

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