The smallest things set me off. I feel like I emotionally diarrhea'd myself after a summer of constipation. I feel like shit. I feel very stupid and gross. The ol' head feels foggy again. I don't feel like leaving my house.
You know when you feel like you've fucked up so bad you can't fix it, and you walk around with that heartache? The kind that makes the idea that there will be a tomorrow to do better in miserably impossible? There's only tonight, and it's already too late. That heartache.
But I'm Ben fucking Meier, God damn it. I'm not some damn slouch! Life may brand me with the most underwhelmingly painful insignias, but I develop the dermatological intervention to repair the branded skin! I cheat death! Life will not damn me to my bedroom where I shall sulk forever, wishing somebody would blow my fucking head off with a sawed off shotgun after masturbating for the fourth time. I'm Ben fucking Meier! I still feel bad after saying that. It's a pain in my chest and a fog in my head. I can do this, though. I can do this.
