fake it, fake it, fake it, fake it.

fake it. fake it again. always fake it. a moment unguarded, a moment lost. a moment felt, a doubt created. how long can someone go faking? lying? pretending? how many times can someone be broken and remolded in an instant. how many times can someone feel themselves going higher just to slip. how many memories can be locked away to only reveal themselves within an action done months later, years later, a decade even. what the fuck does it even mean? will it be a lifelong of doubt? wondering if this is actually how you feel, or can you simply trick yourself into believing so. Am I truly “me”, I find myself wondering. Can I even begin to find myself? How deep do I have to search to get an understanding of what I am other than something simply not fucking there. How many times can I retreat into the abstraction of myself. Of the child who grew up in something that felt like a cage. Who grew up spending hours and hours out of his own body when it betrayed him. Of his mind that also betrayed him with every turn, twist, flip. How many memories will I find myself reliving in stupid fucking bullshit dreams that the deep psyche decides to throw at me like a fucking football. How many times can I tell myself that I’m okay. That I’ll be okay. That the future will be great. How many times will I keeep spending late nights deciding tomorrow will be better? What the fuck is wrong with me?

parent’s are the devil’s wardens.

absolutely fucking useless creatures. are your parents cool? good for you loser. I hate you. Just kidding. I’m glad. I’m really fucking jealous but I’m glad. I know a lot of people have shitty parent’s but It makes me glad that somewhere out there, somewhere close, somewhere maybe far. That a child won’t ever have to ask questions like “what did I do wrong?”. won’t have to question if their parents even know what love means and how to show it outside of abuse. Somewhere there’s a child who’s father actually cares. Who didn’t drink his mind rotten, who doesn’t have to stare into bloodshot angry eyes for making simple fucking childish mistakes. Who won’t have to dread the fact that he’s his father’s son. Love and hate are so interchangable. At every second I find myself saying, “like yeah he’s an abusive, narcisssitic, manipulative, womanizing, cheating, sex addict who’s taken out every ounce of his own fucked up life onto me, my little brothers and (while equally a fucking dirtbag) mother. but he’s my dad and I love him.” Somewhere a child enjoys the idea of returning home to greet their father and ask him silly questions without having to step on landmines that lead to lectures and beatings. Somewhere out there a daughter who doesn’t have to deal with a woman who while also is a victim, is also a perpetuater of said abuse. My parent’s are fucked. I’m fucked. Everything is fucked.

i’m learning to hate people.

everyone is so dreadfully pitifully disappointing. and it’s sad. I don’t judge. Why would I? I’m equally so. I’m sure I’ve disappointed my fair share of people. but it’s just so shitty how everyone in this tiny little forsaken planet that’s slowly dying and rotting is fucking disappointing. I don’t judge. I don’t care. But I’m tired of having the bar on the floor and tripping over it because of something so fucking silly and stupid. I hate spineless people. I hate bitch ass niggas. I hate bird brain bitches. I hate politicians. I hate old people. I hate police, fuck the police. I hate everyone. I hate you all. Except whoever is reading this. Why the fuck are you reading this? Stop reading this. Build your life. Escape the need for disappointing people. It will kill you.

numb. numb. numb. cold. weird freak? probably.

i think I’m broken. does that sound emo? does that sound cringe? I don’t care. This is my blog. Why the fuck are you still reading this? Stop reading this. I’m 21 this year. And every year I get fucked cosmically. Is it God? No. Is it karma? I don’t think so (was I hitler or something?). The machinations of the world has simply led me to live this life and experience what I’ve experienced. Thousands of years of discovery, innovation, corruption, pain, suffering, love, joy, happiness has led every step, breath, and movement. Every keystroke on this beautiful fucking keyboard (thank you eve). Every neuron that fires? Evolution. Every thought? Tainted by a capitalistic nightmare. 21 years of pain both physical and mental, both socially and otherwise. Both conscious and not. My body? Working against me since birth. Who knew chronic pain for years straight every day of your life could make you so physically numb you can endure most of it with a straight face and nurses will look at you crazy when you say your pain is at a six. Who knew that years of being emotionally broken down, trying to pick up the pieces and using your spit, tears, and the promise of something better would leave you so emotionally blank that when someone that you love(Is that even real in my fucking head?) can only make you feel slightly pleased. Who knew that seeing people you (used) to look up to constantly fighting, arguing, beating on each other, and beating on you could leave you so close to violence and pain that you’re quite literally a sadist. Who knew that cutting yourself when you were 12 and taking pictures of it on a shitty android because you wanted some fucking attention leaves you undesiring of it. I don’t like attention. Not really. I think I do. I think I would enjoy being something close to famous. But not because I want attention. But because I want to be seen. There’s a large gaping void in every place in my mind that swallows and consumes everything. A constant stream of new wants, needs. Yearning for something that will give me a thrill. Something that will make my heart beat. Something that could make me feel something other than like a fucking bot.