i may be done writing. can't find the fucking point in it anymore... not blogs. you fuckers will still have to suffer my thhoughts since i don't have any friends. not that anyone reads this, but i can pretend, right? but really, i can't find the point in anything right now. writing, fucking, breathing... jacking off. doing a damn thing.
the reason the human breed is here on earth, for all you religious zealots, since god won't let you in on the secret is to have as much fun as possible. to be as happy as possible.... but, where's the point? what's the point in trying? what's the point in caring? because it's all for naught. for this one superficial moment. going to end up dead in the end, no matter. it doesn't matter what we do. in the grand scheme, it's all fucking pointless and worthless and ... to hell with it. what does any of it matter? in the end, we're going to end up six feet under with no one but bugs for company. the people we "love" will eventually forget us, and move along. it's the natural order. it's a survival trait for dealing with a dead one. we'll all die alone and forgotten. it's really not that big of a fucking deal.
all things in this life are irrelevant, inconsequential and oblivous. when you look at a big enough picture. kind of the age old ideology that we're all kids in relation to the age of Gaia. [so fuck off you fuckers who bitch that i call you kid.]
and really, there's no point in getting pissy or mad or anything unpleasant, because it's a waste of time and of energy... but what does it matter? i'm so fucking sick of this.
later fuckers.
