ON THOSE DEADLY SINS — The Labyrinth ;0)

Reflection from January 25th, 2008 @ Age 27


I feel fucking bitter.  Bitter to the touch, bitter to the taste, things smell bitter.  I feel fucking angry as hell and I hate people more today than I have in a great long while.  I’m angry that Stacey’s married and having a baby, I’m angry that Jen’s married and living in a fun city, I’m angry that Danielle has Mike and a convertible Ford Mustang and now a new goddamn house.  I’m angry as hell that John has April and that they’re going on a motherfucking cruise to Cancun.  I hate them all today.  I hate the whole fucking lot of them. 

John’s coming over tonight to meet up with mom, dad and I for dinner at Mama Zs.  I almost don’t even want to fucking look at him in real person; just the thought of him and April and their time spent together, and their fucking international vacation…so so very bitter.

I don’t know what else to say.  I guess that’s some good things about working for a large corporation—you get to transfer to an office in a fun fucking location and you get profit sharing and even a matched 401K.  Bastards.  I fucking hate life—there’s no way to get it perfect and that fucking drives me insane.  At least today, it leaves me maddened with fury and desperation.

It’s so annoying though, because when I say all this bullshit that I’m obviously feeling to a rather significant degree, I feel ugly and marred and fucking mean.  But it’s the way I feel, and I think maybe that’s in large part why people run from ugly emotion—because it’s not pleasant and it doesn’t make you feel fucking good at all.  I just think, what if it were my brother that died last Tuesday, and I hadn’t seen him in awhile because I was angry that he had more money and more opportunity right now than did I?  How would I feel then?  I hate that my choices are to feel fucking ugly and mean or to actively manipulate myself from feeling what I’m genuinely feeling.  I hate life.  Consciousness is the most wicked of all creatures.

I do think it’s interesting to note, however, that it doesn’t seem to matter that I’m pretty or smart, or that maybe I’m creative or was brought up in a middle-class environment.  I still suffer like the rest; from different things perhaps—but it’s really all the fucking same.


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