“Things like me don’t get to die happy. We live in sorrow and pain; our deaths, horrific and alone.”

Those words have been littering my mind for the past few days now. I can’t really put my finger on it but I think that I might’ve lost my mind sometime in between now and, I guess, when I was born. But this isn’t going to be a trip down memory lane. I’ve done enough of that in all the previous incarnations of what this always ends up becoming. Sometimes I wonder if my brain actively knows this is getting convoluted. I’ll have to remember to ask it one day.

SO, yeah, the point of this. I don’t think I remember anymore. That’s a lie. I remember. I just no longer feel like sharing. I’m miserable. No surprises there. “I, I, I.” What should I be doing right now is what’s most paramount. It’s not this. Great, “this,” just like the last couple are going to make about as much sense as a “hang-gliding whore-house.”

I plan on pushing myself to death. If I survive, maybe I’ll finally be good enough. For someone. For the mission. For the fate this path I’ve chosen plans to bestow upon me. There it goes again, being convoluted.

I hate my writing. I hate myself.