I long for death, yet I am afraid to accelerate it’s blessing. So I continue; undead, reveling in the respite that sleep brings. However briefly.

No friends, don’t worry about me; I’m not reaching for the shot gun just yet. I’m just having one of those days when the world is just too fucking close and the bottle is too fucking far away.

Many of you know exactly what I’m talking about but usually some nice medical professional has decreed that it is abnormal and has arranged for some sort of alternative chemical solution.

Apparently, this is normal for me; it’s just the way I am, so deal with it. Merry Fucking Christmas; pass the scotch. A nice 18 year old Glenlivet will do.


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