Splat

Splat
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2005-03-12 05:00:42 (UTC)

What A Load Of Wank

How many fucking depressive goth fucks are there on here?
I thought I'd have a scan through some recent entries
before I came back to do what I set out to do in the first
place: find a wavelength to tap into. Wish I fucking
hadn't now.

"why did u leev me i luved u so much boohoo wah wah"

What the fuck? Are you all that fucking weak that you have
to moan on about a failed fucking relationship in a 10
line 'poem' that conveniently rhymes? Jesus fucking
christ, get out more.

APC just wasn't giving me the hardon I was after, so I now
have Ticks and Leeches blasting into my ears. Fuck yes.

This time two years ago, I was probably sat at my
keyboard, the same way I have been almost every night
since, waiting for someone I could share my ideas with,
someone who could play them back to me, and elaborate on
my thoughts.

Now I just feel fucking lost, and not in a "Im a koala
bear in an ice-cap" kind of way, although....

I have a problem. I can talk and talk and talk all night,
all morning, and all through to the next week, and never
really say anything, and yes, I realise just how cliché
that comes across.

I don't even feel comfortable sitting here, and it's
really starting to drain the life out of me.

All fucking day, I sit around, just thinking, and it gets
me nowhere.

I don't even know what the fuck I'm talking about.

I used to be so great at, well, everything. Now I can
barely put a sentence together without using some sort of
obscenity.

I'm wasted, and I know I am. I know full well that I could
be the next fucking Einstein, or Buscaglia.

I have so many passions, and not one of them works in my
favour. I know more about music than most people twice my
age could say, I've read more books, and seen more movies,
and if you get me at the right time, I could make you
question yourself in ways that you never imagined were
possible.

But no.

Instead, I'm sat here, trying to think what I'm saying,
instead of just.... typing, until something worth reading
comes out.

It's that fucking wanker stuck in the back of my head.
Picking at me, telling me how it's all nothing more than
my imagination, how I'll never be anything, and that I
never was. It drives me fucking insane.

I keep telling myself, "Just one break, that's all you
need," but it's not. All I really need, is to pull my
finger out of my arse, and stop feeling sorry for myself.

Fucking.....

"Sorry I'm anti-social, but people make me sick."

Even now, I'm trying to be something I'm not.

Fuck it.


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