I wrote my assignment, it’s on my fiction blog. It could be better, but it’s a shitty first draft. I helped my mom for hours on her paper, it’s okay. She gave me $50. Well, I already spent it, but I get to pay her back when I get my money from sending those books to that website. Okay, I’m bored. I think I’m going to go to hang out at Josh’s house.

I’m IMing Patrick, this guy that works at my cousin’s job. He seems really cool (mostly because he’s met Trent Reznor). Just when I thought the Nausea would set in, I was saved by conversation. I’m hungry. Dinner didn’t fill me up. So I didn’t do the dishes. I feel fat and ugly even though I excercised more than I’ve excercised in months today. I need to work on my upper body. All this running and bike riding is just making me feel uglier. Muscular legs aren’t sexy, but running and biking are the least involved excercise modes. I don’t want to have to think about sets and reps…god I’m lazy. I want to have a chiseled chest like a movie star. Oh well. I’m going to feel fat, ugly, and untalented the rest of my life. I’d better get used to it. I like talking to Patrick. He’s cool. He’s a conversationalist. He spells things correctly. He likes my picture. Yay. I really need to go to sleep, but I can’t stomach the obligatory trip to the bathroom for the tooth brushing ritual and the PJ putting on ritual. It tires me just thinking about it all.

I’m playing with my hair. I’m in my bathrobe. I’m lamenting that there’s no future to IM conversations. I’m lamenting that I have no friends. I’m lamenting that I have no life. I’m lamenting that parallelism is ineffective at conveying how I feel. I hate life. I hate my job. I hate my lack of inspiration. I hate my lack of an essential self. I hate my dad. Most of all I hate my dad for moving me to this shithole. I will never forgive him for that. But I suppose it could have been worse. Patrick has to go for a bit. I should go brush my teeth. I hate myself. I hate me. I hate my materialism.

I love things more than people because things won’t tell me they don’t love me or that I’m boring or stupid or ugly. I love my computer. I love my surround sound system. I love my bathrobe. I love my books. I love my movies. I love my bookcase. I love my bed. These things won’t ever leave me. These things will always faithfully do their purpose. The bookshelf will continue to stand. The pendulum on the clock on the wall will continue to swing, to tell me the time. My paintings will always love me back. Things are reliable. It is safe to love things. People are fickle. People change. People disappoint. People hate. People tell me off. People shun me. Well fuck people. I’ll just curl up in a big ball with all my stuff and it will love me forever.

Good convo with Patrick. Yay. I love Depeche Mode. Is that so wrong? Going in for the kill. Asking about his current boyfriend. The Depeche Mode is my friend. It numbs the unceasing ennui. It assuages my bruises from earlier today. Patrick is being vague about what’s wrong with his relationship. He should get more specific. This is story fodder. I am inhuman. I am a machine. A fucking machine. A writing machine. A blogging machine. An IMing machine. A music consuming machine. Ending is better than mending. Ending is better than mending. A gramme is better than a damn. One cubic centimeter cures ten gloomy sentiments. Fuck.

So it turns out that we’re not doing anything. Motherfuck. I hate how stupid I am. I hate how I have no inspiration. Maybe I’ll read the chapter on theme. Maybe.