We as Humans

Woes.

My toes are chilled and everything I write is choppy. I don't believe anything exists but I don't believe anything doesn't exist either. I don't get enough recognition for being a special little snowflake and I criticize the idea of being unique. I pretend to be intelligent but everything I produce I roll my eyes at. As though what? I'm too good for this pathetic trash that is.....me? I don't know how to describe the taste of earl grey tea and I'm too smart and stupid for my own good. I find contradictions a lazy form of philosophy. My parents don't get me and these jeans don't make my ass look good. That last one I didn't mean. But who's to say that comment is any worse then the rest that I've made? For, essentially, these are all just my boring, programmed,

teenage woes.

Cleaning out my inventory of all my unposted messes. Does anyone actually read these end notes? I sure as hell don't. How far could I go before people realize everything I've created is bullshit I've tricked myself into?