A Week Left

 In about a week, I turn 31 *barf*

Imagine pulling a sweater apart. At first, the strands will fight you, but soon they disintegrate. Each hank, that once kept you warm, now falling apart into a cloud of particles. 

That is exactly how I feel. Disintegrated. 

I am sick of hearing myself talk about it. I am sick of complaining and nothing changing. I hate my own reflection so much that I covered up the mirror on my wall. I hate it all, and I hate being here. Everything is a huge pile of disappointment. In this fragmented existence, what is the meaning of ambition? Or even connection? I have nothing to offer anyone, much less a partner. I keep trying to put it altogether but I keep failing. 

With days, weeks, and decades passing me by, what is the point of continuing. I bought a car over the weekend. I just felt like crying and I don't even know why. I might have to buy a home and I am dreading it. 

-------------Side note---------------------------

FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER! FUCK THIS PAPER!

I hate this paper so much now. More than the paper, I hate myself that I cannot complete it. I hate it and I hate breathing! fuck this!

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Dear Reader,

If I get more unhinged in the future posts, please know that I wasn't so from the start. I was a kind, happy, bright kid. But the world fucked me over multiple times. Fuck all those people who destroyed me. Fuck the decisions I made. Fuck the responsibilities I must dredge to survive. And overall, fuck having to survive the most!

From the desk of an exhausted 30-year old going on 31,

Forgive me,

Yours Truly