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Sometimes, like right now, I stare at my Tumblr dashboard and realise that it’s a painful reflection of the emptiness of my life. It’s supposed to be an escape, an outlet, a form of creative expression or mental ejaculation, but instead it only reinforces the very same realisations that I try to ignore. I’m reminded of all the people that tell me that I just don’t get it, I don’t get them, I’m missing the point, or I don’t understand women. But the logic of how much I get it stares blankly at me saying, ‘wtf?’

Then I look at my post editor telling me that I already asked two questions today so I can only ask another one tomorrow and I wonder if it gives a shit about the fact that most of my questions go unanswered anyway? Now I’m talking to my post editor, which makes me almost as shallow a douche bag as the ones I despise.

Pathetically unique, or uniquely pathetic? Looking for meaning in the wrong places, or doomed to be insignificant? Fighting my true nature, or simply in denial? What does it matter? Asking these questions doesn’t change what is, it only reaffirms what is not. I should be asleep right now, but I’m averse to getting into bed again. 

Nothing gives you quite a mind fuck like betrayal…it’s the wine of the heathens! 

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