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i'm horribly bored, but at the same time unbearably lethargic. i need a cigarette. i need some meth. no, i just need to go back to work. i need a new job. i need to be out of this goddamned place. grrr. my brain is working overtime, but i'm not using it for practical purposes. i'm sitting idle, so it starts filtering through things i don't want to think about. i hate days like this. i think about the past. i think about the future. i think about that re-occuring nightmare i have where my life amounts to a bowl of warm air. see, in those dreams my dad calls me everyday so he can laugh at me and call me a failure. he criticizes me about the choices i've made and compares his life of high spending and womanizing to mine of solitude and humility. i was always destined for failure, he tells me. i should've lived like him, been raised like him, been beat more as a child. i hate those thoughts. mainly because i wake up feeling like he was right in the dream. maybe i am destined for failure. but who judges that? is that failure in his eyes or in mine, because that means two different things entirely. failure in his eyes means not having a succesful job, or a good car or someone to blow you after a long day. to me? failure is not being loved. those amenities mean nothing to me without someone to share them with, someone by my side to love for the rest of my life. friends to count on, ones who listen to everything. people to listen to me jabber after snorting three lines of crystal. basically all the things he doesn't have.
now
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