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When smoke gets in your eyes it’s about time to start drinking.  Again.

That’s the regular fucking story, isn’t it?  Booze and the rest of it.  Because what else do I have?  I hate myself.  I hate my life.  And I don’t fucking give a shit about anything.

Coarse and unfinished.  Not a bad way to go.  There is always something more.  There is always something more to do.  And then?  No and then.  And then?  No and then.

If god gave a shit about you, he would have killed you off years ago.  You are a total waste of fucking space.  Let the rest of us die in piece, you blanksouled motherfucker.

Again.

It’s not a trust issue.  I don’t put myself in those situations.  I don’t need to trust people.  I trust myself.  Everyone else is just a walk-on.  There are small parts.  Yours.  And there he goes again.  On his damn dull ego trip.  Eh.  At least it’s better than some of his other shit.  Actually, no.  Not really.

3 is the number after 2.  It is also after -7.  On the number line.  Look twice.  You’ll see.

There is a point to all of this.  A reason.  It all has some underlying theme.  I just don’t know what it is.  Let me know if you can find one.  You might be able to figure it out.  I just can’t make myself an objective observer.  You know how it is.

By the way,