Fuck Off - A philosophical discourse on contemporary bullshit

FUCK OFF

Today is my week off from working night shifts at a 3D modeling company. It’s 4am on Saturday and I’m staying awake, trying not to break my circadian rhythm so that I can get adjusted to working night shifts for the next month and the remaining time I have to be with this company. I don’t know what to do. 

I feel so empty already and it’s just been a week. 

It’s just been a jump after jump from place to place for me, I failed my 11th grade and had to do it again in another school to which I was never able to make or keep any friends which I can call my own, then it was a sudden rush into college and just when i felt like I was getting used to the people there and forming a life there, BAM! There is a huge disaster, my idea of my family is changing and I have dropped out of college only after completing an year and now here I am, working a job I never really had an idea of doing, the future looming ahead of me, fractured from every friend group I’ve tried to have, knowing them just enough but not, i feel like there a open bleeding wound inside of me which refuses to close no matter how much i close it. 

It’s like I have changed my identities three times already and I feel like I'm getting older and tired of everything and I’m just 19 years old. 

Of course I know all of this is happening with a planned purpose in mind, but it’s just very difficult to live like this, alone, always feeling this way...it’s the loneliest feeling, it’s the feeling of being an outsider to everything, of not having any ties to anything. 

I don’t even want to write this. I can’t write anything else.

I can’t fictionalize my pain and suffering can i?

I suck at writing. I don’t have the discipline to write a novel and a short story, yet I have the gall to open my mouth and say that I’m a writer.

I’m feeling as if the room that I am sitting in and typing this out is my coffin and each day a heap of sand is thrown in my face. 

I cannot cry myself to sleep everyday. It’s useless honestly. 

It’s not worth solving.

I want to write a book, I want my works to be read and loved by people, I want to become that writer, that film maker, but each time I look at it, I realize what a fool I have been. I've been trying to climb a mountain made of smoke. 

I have no ideas to write books about, I absolutely feel like all I do is waste my life in purposeless loops of perfectly organized productiveness which does not give me satisfaction.

I actually wanted to write some poignant and thoughtful shit, but all I can come up with is a rant. A wheezing, asthma choked scream of desperation as my lungs fill with tar and my breath turns to lifeless concrete, just another soul stretched thin and consumed whole by the machines that rule us, the systems that govern us, I feel like I’m being swallowed whole by this world. 

I feel exactly like I’m leading a life of quiet desperation, there is deep and primal hunger within me to do something creative, to write something, anything and get it out.

I can’t write and my hands won’t write. I can’t plot it nor can I pants it. I need to say this and I know not what I want to say.

NOBODY WILL READ THIS DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT.

NO. NOT EVEN ONE. EVERYONE IS FUCKING DEAD YOU BASTARD.

NOBODY FUCKING CARES ABOUT ANYTHING YOU DO
YOU’LL DIE A WORTHLESS, PENNILESS, SACK OF SHIT, IN THIS CRAPSACK OF A WORLD.

Yeah, i’m not even joking, you think someone will read this when you post it on wattpad, you dumbfuck, even the woman who you thought was your best friend has forgotten you. You are a burn mark in the hellfire of this world. No one wants to hear your story. No one. You are not Franz kafka or H.P.Lovecraft, at least they were recognized after they died. 

You are not the Da Vinci or the next Van Gogh, you are an imitator, an ape, a screaming poop throwing ape which likes to eat and shit and throw its poop and walls and considers it art. You are a pretender. No it’s not the way you think. Every single day you think of the one day when you will be that legend, the author who has told his story.

But you never realized something along the way son. 

You don’t have anything important to say to this world. 

No you are not Dostoevsky or Tolstoy, you don’t have anything profound or sacred in your life. Your life is as unique as a McDonald's Cheeseburger.

Nietsche said God is Dead and we have killed him, but did we ever realize that when we killed God we died with him? We died right there, our lives lost purpose honestly, it has been just downhill from there. We have become eaters of our own shit, worshippers of ideas born from the human mind, believers of facts and logics, faithful in being faithless, the element of purpose and direction is lost on humanity.

But of course. Who are you to state these bold claims and who are you?

You are a brainless conspiracy nut. Hahaha go wear your tinfoil hat. Hahaha stupid person. Look at me I’m so smart, look at me straw man arguments. Boo boo. I’m crazy and I accept it. At Least I have the gall to do so. Hahaha teen angst. 

Hahaha you’ll get used to it. Hahaha you still need to grow up kid and stop complaining about everything.

The reason I'm writing this is because I have no one to talk to. I literally have no one I can share this to. I’m a post-box without the slot to put your letters through,unopened,unsealed letters addressed to people who will never get them, rusted and rotted inside the guts of a dead husk, passing off as a living , functioning human being.

I know some soul could read this and this could have some meaning in someone’s life, but imagine this. Yes, I'm speaking to you now. 

Come on, it’s Wattpad, those self-loving flesh-drunk pigs know nothing but gobble up a gluttonous amount of enemies to lovers romance, until their throat bursts and their ears overflows with shit and dung. They are eaters of manure. But that website has some decent traffic and someone might actually read this.

But, but, wait. There is a huge chance, absolutely NOBODY WOULD READ IT.

PEOPLE ARE BORED. THEY HAVE THE ATTENTION SPAN OF A GOLDFISH. 

Absolute silence. Absolute silence. Plainness, the drowning of madness in cheap white paper thin walls, the screamings of something that struggles to be alive, an insect drowning in a avalanche of carcasses, spewing putrid flesh and blood, guts leaking and reeking, and people stomp on them carrying forward, spouting the ever loving all hating all accepting bullshit that is this world.

I am done.

\

End of story

Fuck off.