Deadened

There are many reasons why my extended family thinks I am going to hell.

There is a reason why within' literature and art I am the kind of character that would be going to their make believe hell, in a place full of gossip and critiques that they know, deep down in their heart, that no one gives a shit about. Even in that room. Even in that room with their shitty beer and pants held up by gift ribbon.

I really do not know what I am doing. Everything I do looks empty. I have a riling migraine from drinking last night and around 3 PM the next day is when it settles. Maybe this is good, yes, when my perspective changes. It settles. My perspective changed one day when I woke up and it won't go back.

Today I am hanging out with my brother and raiding a bookstore. I'm so exhausted with my deadened bookcase. Loy, Appiah, Chomsky, Bey, Dalton, Hawkey. You shall be in my grasp in at least one hour.

Being a paranoid has its benefits. Such as, a fancified bullshit detector. The ability to look someone in the eye and they know you're ready to explode into a humanoid volcano is definitely another.