Mitch, angry, horny, hate cats, guitar, fight, guns, knives, cigarettes, punk, boobs, music.
I was hanging out the other day and a dude was talking about purpose and life and all that deep shit. And he said something like this (and I’m paraphrasing):
"A poet writes a poem. Every single person that walks, rolls, crawls, or breathes has the possibility of interpreting that poem, any possible way they want. However, only the poet, the writer of the poem, can tell us what it means.
A computer programmer writes a program. Humans use it any and every way they want. Most think it was created for multiple purposes. However the programmer himself is the only person who can explain that programs purpose.”
What I can take from this and apply is: Who the fuck is my poet/programmer? Who wrote me? Why the fuck am I here? Why am I so different than everyone I interact with? I’m just going to ask mom and dad. They made me right? Hey assholes, why the fuck am I here.
I want to get FUCKED up tonight. Screeching Weasel wrote a song that covers it fairly well. MY BRAIN HURTS MY BRAIN HURTS MY BRAIN MY BRAIN HURTS. My monster is back. I just want to beat people. Like just for looking at me. New three rules for my life.
1. Don’t look at me.
2. Don’t talk to me.
3. Don’t fucking touch me.