The Pessimist.
Stomach hurts. My head is numb and my nose runs. I need a drink to calm my nerves although they aren't really going all the way out right now. Tension builds day by day. My bank account is being milked dry. Thanks dad. You're a fat load of help. I don't feel much use for many things these days. In fact, I'm selling off alot of my stuff. Material desire is a fleeting thing. Spiritual desire I have none. My spirit seems to have abandoned me in search of better hosts.
I'm down to my last stick. I have to go out to buy another pack of cigarettes. Nicotine sustenance is driving me to an early grave. With nothing to my name, there really isn't any reason to live forever. Every day seems to take forever to end, crawling so painfully as the seconds tick by. Pins and needles.
I'll be busy tomorrow. Productive. Over-productive. Stress-induced movements. Freaking out. Shut down. Shut down. I don't want to think about it now. I just want my cigarettes. I have to go down to the shops. Stares from strangers. Exposed. People see and judge. I don't care yet I feel bothered. Privacy lost to an invading force of eyes. They stare and stare.
I want to get out. I need to get out. Things are holding me back. Many things. I have no more flesh and blood to give because I need to get things done. I don't want to talk. I don't want to speak. My security is missing. My sense of being is diminished. I talk out of my ass half the time these days because I just don't know what to say anymore...because there is nothing to say anymore. I can feel the tiresome blood dragging within my veins. They want me to sleep my life away.