Uncertain to which four people (I’m assuming you aren’t Inuyasha demons) read this bullshit, I’ll post an anti-depressant to Show you why I’m so miserable and in the process showing myself how miserable I think I am, just to realize after writing that I am not as bad off as I wish to be. I am not dying or in a cancerous state, and I know how fortunate I am each day, but it never sinks in until something happens. This anti-depressant, let’s call it Lillox, it will make me feel better for the hours to come and deal with the day – I’m already feeling better.

The days are filled with a dark gray curtain to blot out the forthcoming light of the afternoon, usually starting around 1pm and moving slowly into 4pm until the ability to give blank stare into a small rectangular glimmer of entertainment I choose to spend the majority of my ‘life’ on returns. Two speakers, slim, tall and modern looking that cost me more money than I had at the time of purchase stare at me, mocking me with their black shine and bright metal siding to play them louder, past 20%. They are sleek, and more a reflection of the time and place I lived when I purchased them and only played them for a day. These speakers better represent what they replaced and what that symbolized, big black speakers I used to play at full volume and the man they represent, the man who is always going to be there in my heart and represents everything I wanted to be then, and in some ways now. There is an opening in the window of this room, an arch that shines through a bright blue sky that is never covered in slate.

I haven’t showered yet and I hardly see the purpose beyond knowing I will feel better for one hour. I haven’t gone swimming in days because I truly do not like swimming, it seems an activity without purpose for it helps nobody other than oneself. Though a pool may provide the cleansing and purification I need, the chlorine bath that will tranquilize external noise and allow focus to the bright day that I could be having; the people I could awkwardly be meeting while I crave cigarettes and beer to calm me down and help me carry a conversation, all fools gold.

Working out has helped, but it doesn’t last for much longer than a shower and I find difficulty in continuing with it other than to maintain a certain overweight body image that I’ve grown comfortable with over the years. I’m supposed to be doing pushups, working off this terrible chest I have. I was once told by another man in the most sincere and naked manner that I have “a lot of potential.” I’ve heard this for years, never about my physical matter but of my mind, and I finally started to believe it, I even know it, which is why I force myself to exercise the part of my brain that allows me to place words together in a sentence I am never proud of yet told I should be, mostly by those who aren’t dead British authors or English professors so I cannot take them seriously or grant them much merit for their opinion. I am also aware of my physical potential, but find myself hard-pressed to do anything about it.

The Lillox hasn’t kicked in yet, I want my drugs.

Production is the only thing that ever makes me smile that is not an intoxicant or a joke. I must be doing something of value and tactile to feel any sense of relief and self-purpose. Reading a book is grand, but when I have nobody to discuss it with, no deadline to have a review for, no audience seeking my work, how can I find pleasure in this? I’ve never been able to please myself with myself, I am always reliant on others for pleasure. To create my own content and have it be the most satisfying for myself or many others would leave me feeling exuberant and full of only the happiest of thoughts, though I can never impress myself with myself and am forced to look outward for contentment.

Lillox be damned! I’m fucking worthy of praise, I’m kind of cool and I used to be really cool, so why can’t I tap back into that feeling naturally? Is there something I missed on my past experience that I really should have picked up on? I’ve finally gone through the idiotic stage (hopefully that was all of it) of my life and am really wanting to get myself turned in the next direction. It must be in a confident and well to-do fashion, though I sense this will again make me somewhat vain and retard my desire to be as altruistic as possible. Though, even in the vainest of days when I knew I was better than every other fucking hipster in the set for obvious reasons that could not be denied, I would give some money for food to the woman on the corner with a cardboard sign in the rain, begging for change. I still had a bit of me beneath the hair and jeans, under my alcohol filled breath, I was reminded of my actual nature to help someone other than myself. Now my actual nature is being realized, but this path is the most difficult and hardest to please, it also has the most hope and the most support and guidance from my family that is endlessly loving and I forever will be indebted to. I have to build upon the switchbacks or the flood will surely come down and drown the trailblazer.

I’m not slumming anymore, and this is just another pitiful rant. Please, disregard.