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Sunday, September 19, 2004
Writing this has made me that
I feel tired. Don't know why.
Went for a walk. Listened to Manson's Mechanical Animals. Headphones are broken on one side, with tape to keep it on. Couldn't hear it too well.
Hot and muggy out there. Couldn't stand it. Walking made me more tired. Only went halfway, then came home.
Time catches up with you. Always does.
4:20 p.m. Soon enough, it'll be 4:45 p.m. That's off to work.
Just this one more day of it. Then I get off. I can do it. I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it. Stay positive. Pessimistic optimism.
Am I dead yet? Felt like I wanted to be dead the last few days.
I'm not. Got seventy more years of this. Maybe more. Probably less.
Notice how those that die young are remembered young. Their image is what they were when they're young.
Example: Jim Morrison.
I'm an attractive, sexy man now. But time'll kill it. Time murders all.
Time'll make me an old, mean, crooked, wicked man. Wait and see. It'll happen. I'll be a Scrooge, going around. Saying, "Bah humbug," at everything. As if everything's Christmas.
Speaking of Christ. I'm being crucified more readily on my cross as we go along.
Drove by a church eariler today. Said, "Got Purpose?" on it. Said to find purpose at the chruch.
What a lie.
My purpose is to have no purpose.
And if I've got to give a purpose, my purpose is to die, ASAP.
To save us all time, don't read ASAP's letters one-by-one. Read it like you'd read "a sap," only without the space.
You yourself are such a sap.
Love me, hate me, what's the difference?
Guess that's a suitable end. Maybe not.
Just don't give me a gun right now. I'd kiss it and it'd make a virgin forever out of me.
Decided to put my mood at devious. Writing this has made me that.
The whole gun ploy would be bad. Need to fuck some nice lady before that.
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