edeneye

*The following is lasts night's drunken rant, which I found very amusing this morning.

I didn't call my dad to wish him a happy Father's Day. I don't care. I hate feeling guilty for being inconsiderate to people I fucking despise. You can all fucking rot in hell.

Yes, for those who didn't have the pleasure of hearing, I got drunk last night. I absolutely hate myself when I am drunk, but of course I don't feel that way in the moment. I feel complete and tranquil when in the moment. And that's all I have ever wanted. But when I wake up, I realize everything was fake and I feel a disgust that I never imagined. I actually enjoy drinking, though. I just need to learn how to settle at a nice medium.

I am incredibly pissed. And for little reason. No - good reason, but inappropriate reason. Yes, I can tell the difference. I am very upset with all the imbeciles in the world. You know, the ones who avoid logic and common sense like the plague. I think I could do without those people on this earth. Whenever I come across these people in my meaningless existence, I just want to say to them "Stop. Please just stop, turn around, and leave before you make me want to die." Too late.

forgot how it feels, well almost

I think deep down we all just want to be judged.

We all want our fucking secrets exposed and we all want to know that our worst enemy knows everything volunerable about us. Everything

You know, it may be because I am a little buzzed, but I don't hate my idiotic, illogical, alcoholic rants. This is what we live for, or at least what I live for and what everyone else should live for; passion. Remember that word? And, no, I'm not talking about the name of the fragrance of your fucking body spray, I'm talking about the long lost art of motivation, love, and dedication. Even if it's about something as stupid as fucking the asshole who cut you off this morning (I really need to stop with the random analogies), it's good to yell about something once in a while, to cry. Just to feel something. I don't fucking care if all I have left to be passionate about is Nine Inch Nails, or my saddness, or the fucking insanity I feel every once in a while, or forgetting everything about the night before, or remembering every word and movement you made. Fuck the public's idea of "passion." I do not give a fucking shit about school, but I fucking try my hardest because I have nothing better to do. I don't fucking care if every sinlge human being on the face of the earth would hate me, I still try my hardest to make them fucking smile or say "Thank you." And I would actually be happy as fuck if I died right this minute, but I stay alive and try to.
School, personality, and life could go to fucking hell. I don't need any of this to tell me who I am. The things I am passionate about tell me who I am... I tell me who I am. And while I'm at it, fuck God. The last thing I need is another person (or all-mighty diety, whatever floats your religous beliefs) telling me the difference between good and evil. If all of you have so many fucking opinions about it, then go start your own church and leave me the fuck alone.

Maybe the problem is I'm left alone too often. In that case, fuck yeah, come over and preach your fucking ass off; I'm not going to believe anything you say, but I'll fucking listen and that's a lot more than most people can fucking promise you.

everything is blue in this world

I think I have reached the end of my rope, and before I start off on another tangent about depression, I will stop. Yeah... drunk. This pathetic excuse for a screwdriver has been forcing sips of itself down my throat every mid-sentence, and I think I just might have reached that content little medium. Congradulations to those who made it this far in my night's speech and thank you oh so very much for being a part of my existence and fuck you if you criticize me in anyway. I'm doing the best I can.

Sweet Dreams