(no subject)
The quality of life is lacking...well, quality and life. Everything seems so perfectly superimposed to make me feel as if there is some kind of substance or point. But when you scratch away the surface there is only games. Silly, strange, painful games that remind me everyday of what a bad decision this really was. Some people think that everything happens for a reason, and that there is no such thing as a job not worth doing, and that you are only worth what you can produce. Whether it's laughter or labor, you are only as good as your last war. My last war was floors. So I should be feeling great right now. I walked all over them, and I drowned them, and I scratched off their skin and rebuilt them in my own image. At least there was a blue tinted reflection of what somebody somewhere thinks I am. A blue tinted waste of time. But don't worry, I don't actually believe in wasted time. Time is just another faction of the deception of someone else's purpose.