I am tired of this shiiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttt. And I mean it too, including the unnecessary extension of the word which, really, was very necessary after all to truly express my emotions on the subject. I. Am. Tired. Of. This. Shit. Not just tired in a passing, mindless way, like after a bad day or even a particularly bad day, no - I'm tired in a Kafkaesque point-of-no-return, Phantom of the Opera style power ballad. I'm at the end, folks. It's just been too much shit for too long. God knows, the saints know, the blessed Virgin Mary knows, hell, I bet even the Prince of Darkness knows, that it's over. From a certain point onward there is no longer any looking back, and - hello!- point. You know, I really don't need this at this particular moment. Is it not enough that I suffer from a permanent existential crisis mingled with an inexorable misery over the fate of my future, coupled with the insufferable day-to-day annoyances of the human condition? Apparently for God up there and his hierachy of angels, no. Awesome, God. Awesome.
ARGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHG.
It's been 20 years and 11 months, and after 20 years and 11 months of this shit, I think I deserve a break. Other than jail, there's only one other place where you can suffer for that long. Know what it is? Hell. I'll just let that sink in for a moment. Hell.
Ok. So now the inevitable arises - what am I going to do? Other than bitch, of course, despite how attractive that may be. The answer - I don't know. Really, though, I rarely ever know anything. I just kind of stumble along into things and out of things, and thus is my life. Fuck you, world. I'm moving to Paris.