My demons are probably catching up to me again. Or maybe it’s just my need for people to accept whatever bullshit I tolerate myself doing. Probably my thirst to screw-up things that are actually important just to have something other than fucking ennui.
Here’s a good example: Forget about all the adds, campaigns and tax bills and the entire world against it. Yesterday, I went out with long time friends. 8 long years I’ve considered them my closest friends and then go shoving in their faces how I broke a promise I’ve made to them, how much I didn’t give a damn about it. I played like it wasn’t a big deal. They played like it wasn’t a big deal. And I made myself believe that I’m not to feel guilt over something that I decided myself.
I was wrong.
And the guilt is eating at me forcing me to distract myself from update feeds in my social networks that would undoubtedly contain their general and subtle disdain with me, with my bullshit. And I remember justifying to myself that what I’m doing is nobody else’s business but mine. Nobody else’s decision but mine. No matter how destructive this habit is.
Is it so wrong to deal with my crap in my own pace? To be able to say to myself that I’d be stopping for MYSELF and not for anybody else? And I know it’s pride and so very hypocritical of me. Everything I hate about other people.
But I’m a mass of contradiction, forever wavering and shifting, balancing the fragile line of monotony. So here we are again with my endless complaints and chronic inaction. How predictable, utterly pathetic.
I make no sense. I really do.
ink in iv drips 