Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck.
Fucking.
Shit.
Do I seem calm to you?
Do I seem to have it all “figured” out?
Fuck this.
Fuck YOU.
I keep it together only because I’m afraid of letting it all out.
I entered an impassioned moment last night. I allowed myself to admit I care about something.
I was laughed at.
You scoffed at me.
If I am not to be taken serious, then why am I even wasting my time here?
Isn’t there more to life than being god-damned comfortable in our own blind complacency?
Do I seem calm?
Good; the forced complicity is working.
I feel trapped by this world; trapped by my job; trapped by money.
I feel trapped by age. I feel trapped by gender. I feel trapped by pressure. I feel trapped by image.
I feel like I’m under constant strangling.
I have to go to work now, so I can pay the costs of living.
How am I going to pay the bills next month?
Why do I feel so alone nearly all the time?
Why aren’t I living my purpose?
Why am I sitting at such a large table?
Why haven’t they called me back?
I need support here.
I’m imploding.
I’m smiling.
Thank god I went out to sing last night.
I need to stop driving that car.
I look forward to running.
Who are you?
– Wednesday, 11 February 2015 (1:43pm = 1343)
Articulated Jargon 