It has really been bothering me. And I really have been thinking a lot about it recently. Unfortunately, I am forced to say, a lot of these uppity feminist bitches come up with is actually, for the most part, pretty much correct. You can fluff around a bit on a periphery a bit. This and that, etcetera, you know. I really did not want this. I did not. Definitely, definitively, absolutely did not want this to happen. But the force! of the argument! there's only so many times you can withstand the persuasive flash! bang! apparent explosion of the truth.

It's made me think. I've been tossing up. Whether I want to be a decent person or not. To be honest, I'm leaning towards, the answer is NO. I mean, you know, everyone likes to think they are decent person generally: But when you actually, exactly, demand to see the list of demands that are put upon you, well! how the hell! you've seen the scroll! what the fuck am I supposedou co to do with this!

I can quite capably justify myself, to myself, at any time you like to ask, but please. sweet jesus, god, don't ask me to justify myself to everyone.

I guess you could call me a nihilist, in so much as these problems scare me as I cower before them, but I kinsda feel like there are no ultimate solutions to these problems, that everything is vanity, all is vanity; vanity, vanity.

But still, bro, I got this cup, that I might fill with empathy; or else disperse to the ground, whatever I felt like.

This cup is not made of clay,, we shape it, we apply our force, direct from of our hands.

Friends! bros, associates... acquaintances, and so forth. I know what you think. I used to think the same thing also. It bothered me for a long time. But I can't deal anymore. And if it's the easy way out, well, fuck it. Cos after ten, twelve, whatever years of this shit I'm really getting sick of feeling unwell. Every day bro, every day of this shit hammering on my head, malicious malformed gnomes of the silver hammer despair beating, beating day at night. I can't cope! By myself! And I no longer care! whether it actually solves anything or not, or whether prozac is just some feel good drug that makes me feel better, because I think I've reached my purchase limit. I reckon this is near the end of train ride. I can longer keep carrying on, carrying on this way I have been previously. All my well worn strings are getting frayed and warned, forgotten anchor ropes forgetting rubbed worn thin.

Shit for me has gone all algebraic. Want to keep making the effort, or x. Don't bother calling cops just yet, this cauldron been bubbling since well before personal.

Let us not forget, despite all this emo expression that: a) I could probably (at any time) beat you into a vague & bloody pulp & b) most definitely, under certain, admittedly relaxed rules, drink you under the table