Sitting in a pool of my ever-so annoying anxiety, angrily listening to some chit named Miley Cyrus going on about ‘and a Britney song was on…’ over and over again, those stupid pills doing nothing for the gnawing anxiety which is my life, and fuck, what I really need is anti-fail pills.
My nerves aren’t what they use to be, anymore, though I think I was just better at adapting to the switches, and now I rely on pills like some sort of… brainwashed mindless idiotic maggot. I’ve become what I preched against. So how’s that for hypocriticy? Here’s a bowl of it, so please, sit down and gobble it up like the fool that you are. My pride is burning.
Oooh.
You’ll be the death of me.
Ohhh.
I think my eyesight is getting worse. I can’t see shit anymore, and everything just blurrs and merges and twists. Driving is fun. Not really. It’s more work. Everything is just more work for me. I’m convinced, somehow, that the licence plates are all trying to spell out a secret message to me. They’re just… coded. Really well. And besides the angry urges, and the suspicion that the person behind me is following me, everything is alright.
