My life is a swirling, disorienting mess. I hate myself. I’m wounded from the past like the rest of you. Coming to terms with the moment isn’t getting any easier.
I’m yearning for death.
The morality of continued existence poses itself as a defeatist conundrum.

Sure you could have it all, but sooner or later you’ll lose it all just trying to get ahead of the game.

I snort cocaine, yet all I want is you. This reminiscing thing used to be worth it, but now I’m in so deep, I’m questioning all that ever was.

Don’t kiss the bride because the groom’s around, instead just finger a bridesmaid in the cloak room.
Messy affairs and burgeoning lust always makes for good evening entertainment.

I’ve been fucking and drinking the pain away for weeks now. I can’t remember the last time I was sober. The truth stings a little.

Please feel free to remind me that I’m terrible. The guy that’d never call you back. The guy that’d blank your messages. The guy that never wanted the relationship you wanted.

Please do share your criticisms:

Are the sentences too long?

Are the philosophies too jaded?

Are the sexual liaisons too often?

Are the nihilistic words too brutal.

Am I too unlikeable?

Mull it over.
Think what you feel. Feel what you think.

I took 20 pills, I wrote a note. I said goodbye. I woke up the next day and just rolled my eyes.

My morality seems so pitiful now. Rotten to its very core. I’m a shit person, but c’mon if you didn’t know that, then you really haven’t been paying enough attention.
Terrible people make the world go round. I’ll spend all my money on whatever’ll kill me, and if that doesn’t make me the greatest boyfriend you’ll ever have then someone’s lounging in an illusion.

I swagger into the room, as if my life isn’t crumbling, as if that girl isn’t asking me about what we once had, whilst another girl sits on the bed playing with herself, telling me to stick my dick in her.

If my identity’s still intact by the 12th drink, then the liquor isn’t strong enough. I’ll drink myself to death. Vandalise my fucking grave.

I fucked a girl a few days after we broke up, she wasn’t you, when all I wanted was you, but I can’t anyway.

The majority of the populace will eat a lie for dinner, and reguritate it, when their digestive system is shot.
At the end of the day, you need someone to tell you drug abuse is bad but you’ll do it anyway.

I rang her at 6am and told her I can’t do this anymore, something hasn’t gone wrong yet.
Drunkenly, I realised it had gone straight to voicemail.

The mirror gives a twisted reflection, the cracks contort it even further.
One day there was innocence
The next there was sexualisation for the ages.
Trying to find my mind is proving to be a lot more difficult than originally antiquated.
I’m lost in a black hole of pussy, self-harm and misery.
Line yourself up and give it all you’ve got, all that matters is the high of the moment.

Everything around me withers and decays, whilst I sit back and watch it all come crashing down.
Oh what a fucking sight it is.