“After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.” – Theodore Sturgeon (Star Trek: TOS, Amok Time)

By and large, a good deal of the most tiresome aspects of human consciousness only end up being amplified within my agony-ridden mind. Disappointments are that much more disappointing, and the emptiness which follows is similarly that much more empty. The moment something presents itself to me, something that I otherwise thought I wanted, it usually isn’t very long at all before it suddenly becomes the kind of thing that I feel I need to discard, or flee away from, as soon as possible. And yet, it isn’t long after that, that I’m right back to thinking I want the very things that I’d otherwise just deemed were too much trouble than they were worth to keep. And so it goes, around and around, like a crooked carousel with cracked mirrors and corroded porcelain ponies. Just another self-cannibalizing loop to add to all the others which keep me trapped being a human ouroboros. It’s this near constant jerking back and forth between two conflicting states that, more than almost anything else, condemns me to an existence utterly bankrupt of contentment.

No matter which direction I go in, there’s never any different outcomes, and there’s never any winning. I feel awful alone, and I feel an ever so slightly different flavor of awful whenever it is that I’m not. No matter how casual a bond I have with someone, there’s an element of exhaustion attached to it that can’t ever seem to be erased. When it comes down to it, I don’t inherently want to do anything, but when another person is involved, suddenly it feels like I have to do something, even though I never genuinely want to. I’ve fought that feeling before, going on months at a time, but yet still it remained firmly at the core of my being, as persistent as ever. And if this is all it’s ever going to be, in regards to having to fight myself at every turn over the simplest of things, then I honestly don’t think their could be better evidence to demonstrate how urgently I need to cash in my chips as a carbon based lifeform and get the fuck out of this universe that I was never capable of existing in, in the first place.

How the hell is this all supposed to be? How the hell does any of this feel good for other people? How the hell do you compensate for the absence of something that’s so fundamentally irreplaceable? You can’t, of course, but it’s still pretty brutal to continually have to reckon with, insofar as nasty rhetorical questions go.

As of this moment, I’m right in the middle of another one of these loops I just described earlier. Out of desperation to escape the boredom/stagnancy of not having anyone to do anything with, I went ahead and reached out, and in doing so, found a couple people to play some online games with. And it’s all been fine so far, but all it takes is a few days, if that, and pretty soon I’m back to grappling with everything I’ve had to grapple with before, whenever it is I’ve interacted with anybody. Not all that much different to what I was dealing with when I was a young kid, in fact. It was more anxiety/shyness that exacerbated the problem back then, as opposed to the anhedonic depression that primarily hangs over everything now, but that core inability to make these things not feel exhausting, or to even understand them at all, remains as fixed and palpable as ever. When it comes down to it, all I feel compelled to do is lay down on the floor and rot, but there’s no salvation to be found in that either, as much as I wish there were.

As it is, all I’m doing with these people right now is playing video games, and while I still kill time with gaming, it’s hardly the compelling hobby it once was. Far from it. Most any day of the week it’s essentially the last thing I want to do, which in turn only makes me want to avoid these people as much as possible, but, truth be told, that’s pretty much a constant reflex for me whenever I’m interacting with anyone, regardless of the context. Playing with others does little to change that, although I’ll admit that it’s a slight improvement over always playing alone, despite the loss of freedom it asks from me in return.

And that right there is a big part of the reason why interacting with others will always carry with it its own share of terribleness. To be alone, after all, is to be completely free. The more of that you give up, the less free you are. Despite all the pain that comes with it, I’ve gotten far too used to that kind of freedom. Not to mention that the very first person I interacted with at length, in a one on one fashion, sucked away every last second I had to give without a second thought, which in turn makes all this that much more difficult to deal with, being somewhat scarred as I am from that past experience. Even sacrificing the microscopic amount of freedom it takes to play a game with someone feels like giving up too much. Not that someone like me really needs to be spending more of his time playing video games, mostly given how many uncountable hours it’s already hewn away from my, at this moment, deeply deteriorated hide.

But what else is there to do online with another person? Really not much else, it would seem. Chatting for chatting’s sake holds no value to me, and I’ve bitched and moaned about my problems enough to those in the past who have chosen to be a sponge for it. Either they’d get sick of listening to me, or I’d get sick of listening to me, and the latter has always been, to me anyway, the worst thing about it. And yet, it remains to be the case that the only topic with which I have any ability to speak on comes back to venting and pontificating about all the inescapably painful garbage that piles itself on down like a neverending rain of trash into the junkyard of my existence. In other words, largely speaking, all I know how to do is whine and complain.

All that aside, and needless as it is to say, anything that keeps me locked inside this dark little room marinating in my own misery isn’t (surprise, surprise) going to help matters actually get better, or if nothing else, even help me to cope with things a little better. Whether that’s doing random shit with people online, or seeing a therapist online, or doing anything else you could think of online for that matter, it just reinforces the isolation/depression that I’m already severely crippled by. I need a heavy and healthy dose of the offline world, but it simply can’t happen in the way it needs to happen. The kind of way that actually leads me to a life worth living. If you don’t have the strength to fight for it, and no one in the flesh is willing to help, truly help, then that’s it for you. It’d be wonderful if life weren’t so exceptionally difficult to get a handle on for the wretched and the waylaid of this world, wrecked and stranded as some of them are on their own little deserted isles of isolation.

But even then, assuming some sort of rescue were to come for the worst of them, the act of trying to integrate oneself into an environment so utterly foreign and alien to the only kind they’ve ever know, from an isolated island to the center of civilization, would involve with it a great deal of dislocation and disorientation. Deep and unabating sensations of displacement, even derealization, would be, at best, a years long struggle to overcome. It would all seem weird, wrong, and wickedly unfamiliar. And, depending how long the prior isolation had been going on for, it may never stop being that way. All that unease, and all that apprehension, would simply coalesce into a firmly rooted fixture of surrealness, far beyond any hope of dissipation. After enough time has passed in the wrong environment, healthy acclimation to a new one becomes next to pure fantasy. And this itself means that, horrifically enough, a large chunk of you will always be trapped on that desolate little island, or, in my case, this desolate little house.


“The Edge… There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” – Hunter S. Thompson

As much as there’s a part of me that would like to finally escape from my isolation and reemerge out into the world, there’s an equal to greater part of me that doesn’t. As much as there’s a part of me that feels the pain of my lonesome existence, there’s an equal to greater part of me that is immediately run ragged and exhausted by even the most casual of social relationships. As much as there’s a part of me that wants to die, there’s an equal to greater part of the me that wants to….well, die, actually. Aside from that last one, it’s as if the mental software that otherwise allows a healthy balance to settle in between all these aforementioned states, has either been corrupted beyond repair, or simply wasn’t there to begin with.

And again, as I’ve pointed out numerous times before, being this sort of way is intensely problematic in the sense that it goes far beyond just being a result of depression, or some random personality disorder, or mental illness itself. It’s a critical error in the very structure of the brain that’s taken place on a level so deep that any notion of fixing it is equivalent to trying to remove every last microscopic piece of plastic from the face of the earth. It simply can’t be done. And not only can it not be fixed, it can’t be ignored either. It’ll always be there, like a worm squirming around at the center of every apple, every fruit, and every other kind of food you could ever think to eat. But hey, at least it’s possible that you might develop a taste for worms and get around the problem that way, right?

I mean, how it is that there exists individuals who can juggle their career, a family, and various other responsibilities/obligations, while additionally making sure to allow enough time for personal betterment and recreation? Even managing just one of those things is a thousand steps beyond anything I could see myself ever being able to handle. And yet, when it comes down to it, there still remains those out there who can do it all, and enjoy every moment of it. Because you see, sometimes those people out there who look like they have everything, really do have everything. They’re more capable, more stable, more loving, and more human than someone like you or I will ever be. Consequently, they also enjoy a far greater share of life’s riches than you or I will ever get to experience. And, by the way, let me just say real quick that it fucking sucks to be you if you’re anything like me.

By and large, the great misbegotten rest of us that make up the faceless masses of this species/feces, are nothing more than the piss poor prop makers building the sets and filling in the background for those lucky enough to strut about the stage of life, and who as a result get to play to their heart’s content within a world that only they themselves are fit for living on. And for those with no roles to play, no purpose to serve in the production, and who lack even the faintest residue of hope to ever participate in it on any possible level, all that remains is either misery, or madness, or both. Overall, I suppose driving yourself insane and believing whatever complete absurdities that can manage to help you cope with this sort of hellish predicament is, if anything, pretty understandable.

And in that, I’m sure there might be a rare and notably pathetic few who have successfully fooled themselves well enough to develop a masochistic taste for the unending nausea and exhaustion of an existence as a subhuman untermensch, believing their fundamentally defective minds, and their utter incapability to participate in any aspect of life beyond whatever solitary shit they’ve settled on as a means to occupy themselves with, as somehow being just as good, or nay even preferable, to enjoying the foundational wellsprings of fulfillment that almost every single non-defective human being on this planet gets to avail themselves of. Those who regard being an anti-social recluse as being a point of pride, of all fucking things, or of remaining a lifelong virgin, or of never knowing or experiencing anything that makes life actually worth living, have managed to go so far up their own asses that they’ve essentially imploded in on themselves. How anyone can press their proverbial nostrils through the sheer amount of shit this entails and then somehow be deluded enough to come away thinking it actually smells like roses, is about as inanely pitiful as it gets. Lie to others about whatever you must, but never lie to yourself. There’s no ignoring it anyway, the cold hard truth of the matter, and any attempts to pretend otherwise, or wish it all away, only makes the pain worse in the long run. Then again, since it’s going to get worse anyway, I suppose it really doesn’t matter what flavor of bullshit one ends up subscribing to, so fuck it.

Good god, the absurdity of people. All their lies and delusions, and all the different shapes that bullshit can take. You almost have to stand in awe of it. Like a permanently broken toilet expelling out raw sewage in every direction and coating every last inch of its surroundings with decades upon decades of filth.


“I feel like a defective model, like I came off the assembly line flat-out fucked and my parents should have taken me back for repairs before the warranty ran out.” – Elizabeth Wurtzel

As someone who’s never been able to navigate the outside world, and who has instead been existing in a 15 year long human trial version of Harry Harlow’s infamously tortuous “pit of despair” experiment/atrocity, it’s hard not to sometimes fixate on the fact that, despite all the excessive destruction which sustains the many goodies of the modern era, my experience of those goodies essentially amounts to nothing. I’ve never traveled, I’ve never gone anywhere fun or exciting, nor have I done anything fun or exciting, and I haven’t really gotten a chance to experience anything that makes life seem worth living.

This is additionally compounded by the fact that, when you get right down to it, there really isn’t that much time left in the world, and if one doesn’t enjoy what’s on offer now, when they still have the chance, then they never will. Our days as civilization, and potentially also as a species, are shortly numbered. Although I’m far less interested in the topic than I used to be, merely for the sheer mootness of it at this point, I’ve been following collapse related trends for the past 10/11 years. Stumbling across sorts like John Michael Greer, Dmitry Orlov, and Michael Ruppert, among others, is what initially clued me into the details of all this, but they also more or less just put words to the thoughts/feelings I was already harboring, in terms of the precarity of civilization and the destruction of the life sustaining capacities of the planet. In my case, it didn’t take having to participate in the outside world for me to come to an individual knowledge/realization of how terminally unsustainable everything is. As opposed to myself though, at least everybody else gets to enjoy whatever’s left. But hey, I’m not bitter. That last sentence was sarcasm for anyone who might be wondering.

There truly is lots to see and do in this world, doubly so considering all the variety of activities afforded to us by this omnicidal industrial civilization of ours, but the bitter reality of knowing how forever out of reach it all was, and is, even despite its relative accessibility compared to ages past, is a very palpably unique kind of agony in itself. And with each passing day this window of extreme abundance closes more and more, until all anyone else can do is look at you with utter contempt and say with shrugged shoulders, “Well, guess you missed out. Sucks to be you.”. Worst of all though, is that it isn’t just this supremely awful feeling of having missed out on living an enriching life in conjunction with all the bells and whistles of the modern era, but of having missed out on living any kind of enriching life at all, regardless of my current position in human history. It’s not so much a case of FOMO I’m dealing with (fear of missing out) as SOHMO (sadness of having missed out).

It’s shocking to think, and I really want to stress the word shocking here, that there are those out there who’ve never suffered even a moment of depression in their entire lives, and have thus instead reaped 1000x more rewards from their experience of life than some defective basketcase like me has been able to, or will ever be able to. The sheer weightlessness of that, in terms of being unburdened by any sort of crippling mental illnesses, must be downright euphoric. I wonder if these sorts of people truly know how goddamn lucky they are.

If anything, it reminds me of that scene from the film No Country for Old Men, with Anton and the gas station owner, and how for the latter their very life hinges on which side an ordinary little quarter happens to land on. And, in essence, isn’t it the same way for all of us? Fate stands to have some of us win everything, or to lose everything, merely by the flip of a coin. The movements of chaos and the pitiless whims of chance are each not given nearly enough credit insofar that they’re both effectively what will come to define who you are, and your overall capacity to behave as a functional human being. And for someone who’s able to participate in life, even if it’s simply on the level of any old average joe, they’ll tend to find a way to make whatever’s around them work for them. The more there is, the more they have to make use of. If there’s something they can experience that’s pleasurable, and it’s within their means to experience, then they will. Not so for someone, such as myself, who’s from day one lacked every single instinct, and what is otherwise to nearly everyone else, baked in intuitive knowledge for how a human being is supposed to feel, act, and think.

Whether it’s the old fashioned and relatively slower paced world of the past, or the bounty of conveniences and luxuries afforded by the world of today, or the (possibly) much more local and communally focused world of tomorrow, assuming there’s to be any kind of livable world for anyone to occupy in the first place, all of the benefits associated with any of them are, and will always be, firmly beyond my grasp.

It honestly makes me wonder that, perhaps, if I had found myself born into a tribe of hunter gatherers, of the sort which existed thousands of years ago, whether it is I would’ve died an early death, and essentially been easy pickings for natural selection, or whether I would’ve somehow found a place for myself in that kind of tight knit arrangement, where survival is all that matters, and each person can do something immediate, tangible and helpful for the benefit of the whole.

Is my defectiveness inherent, or is it simply a byproduct of a bad and arguably inhuman environment? And honestly, while the latter certainly exacerbates the issue, I think it’s the case that there’s always been mentally ill humans throughout our history as a species. A human who lacks the ability to socialize well, especially in the days of hunter gatherers, would’ve either been directly expunged from the tribe, or would otherwise amount to nothing more than a ready made meal for a random predator. If that’s the case, then the only reason why nature hasn’t rightfully done away with me yet, all comes back to how the modern era keeps wretches like me on life support, in terms of insulating me from the sorts of outcomes which would immediately befall me without all the security/conveniences afforded by industrial civilization. As it applies to myself, I consider this extremely regrettable, and I would’ve much rather had nature cull someone like me as soon as it was able to. The fact that it hasn’t, has itself only led to a lifetime of emotional turmoil and near endless inner agony. The fact that I’m alive doesn’t do any good at all, given that I lack everything necessary to actually feel the benefits of being alive. It can be argued that, by natural law, I simply shouldn’t exist, and every moment that I continue to is itself only a further compounding of the fundamental mistake/natural error that is my existence.

At this juncture, years upon years of anhedonic depression and extreme isolation has left me emotionally vacant and cognitively braindead, primarily in the realms of academics and problem solving. The damage of being born was enough to doom me, but this extra damage on top makes for a situation that is thoroughly beyond salvaging. There doesn’t seem to be much light at the end of the tunnel for me, save for of course the light emanating from the oncoming train of systems wide collapse that we’re already very much deep into as it is, and that will inevitability lead to the ending of any semblance of civilization, and quite possibly the human race itself. Either way, my problems are severe enough that it makes it all pretty irrelevant in the end. Just as ever, I have almost nothing to lose, and absolutely nothing to gain. You could snap your fingers and have a perfectly eco-friendly utopian society come to shape as soon as tomorrow, and yet a noose would basically still remain as my only recourse.


“Unless I discover the alchemists’ trick of turning this filth into gold, I am lost.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

There are days where I get pretty angry at the state of how are things for me. Such to the point that, at worst, I slam the palms of my hands against the countertop until I can’t anymore, or kick the wall until my foot gets sore. By and large, the thing I’m most angry at comes back to how much I loathe myself for being a hopelessly neurotic pile of shit. What’s more, I’m angry over why someone like me who has absolutely no fucking idea how to do anything, least of all how to be human, has to even exist at all. I’m angry over how shitty my past was, and how it continues to control and dominate a good part of my mind. I’m angry over how little of a shit I give about myself, and how I continue to let myself go out of sheer crushing indifference. I’m angry that I can’t trust anyone, and that I always see the worst in everyone. I’m angry for being bitter, and I’m angry for knowing so little happiness/pleasure in what’s now passed for a very sad little existence.

This cyclone of inward rage, next to the absolutely bottomless emptiness and misery I’m otherwise suffering from, only reinforces the fact that being on this planet is a near daily punishment, and that I might as well be in hell. When I imagine how this is all going to end, in terms of me sticking my head in a noose, there’s a very cold certainty about it that’s becoming ever more pronounced as time goes on. If anything, that’s just another thing that ticks me off, on account of the fact that I haven’t done it already.

Despite everything I’ve endured, and continue to endure, and considering what little of me remains to care about anything, it’s hard not to still wish that I somehow had the instincts to think, feel and act as a human being, instead of some neurotic half-dead oddity that’s just another one of nature’s botched rejects not fit for life on this planet. If nothing else though, I’m glad(?), as much as I can be glad for anything, that I’ve been able to abstain from some of the worst things that can be inflicted on someone, both in terms of the meat grinder of the working world, and just the general ruthlessness of society as a whole. It’s left me stuck rotting away in my own personal purgatory, but better to be in a grey limbo versus some fiery inferno, although both certainly end up being pretty hellish in their own way.

Given all the years I’ve been like this, I don’t know why I still feel the pain of being alone and of finding myself forever separate from the rest of the world. Spared as I am from some of its ills, but also deprived all of its joys. Happiness and contentment are well known to be fleeting, but pain and suffering are things which never seem to lose their edge. In that sense, I can’t say I’m truly empty and emotionless, since I still feel the hurt and frustration of my predicament on what is essentially a daily basis.

As an aside, the power was off here for nearly 24 hours recently on account of a nasty storm, and nothing served as a more painful reminder in regards to how hopelessly dependent I am on modern day distractions as a means to cope with my dreadful existence. In other words, I’ve spent too long trapped inside the matrix and I’ll never be able to exist outside of it. And as opposed to most everybody else, all I ever got out of it was a dark coffin of a room to slowly fade away in, surrounded by glowing screens that ultimately only served to accentuate the rot that’s now long claimed every last inch of me. Whether it’s the modern world, or perhaps a post-modern world that resembles the technology sparse locality of the past, I can neither enjoy or ever hope to participate in either of them. I’m a thing that never should have been, and I’ll never not hate the fact, deeply hate actually, that everything about me only amounts to a cosmic mistake.

I also decided to go with my mother to a restaurant earlier today, given that the power was still off at the time, and that itself being the only reason why I went at all. It was packed with people, and next to the usual anxiety that’s pretty much unavoidable in situations like these, the whole experience also served as yet another awful reminder of how I’ll never feel comfortable or confident with myself around random strangers, and that the mere idea that I could ever stand on my own two feet as an independent adult is so unbelievably absurd that it makes the most fantastical story you can imagine seem like a masterclass in gritty realism by comparison. When it comes down to it, my anxiety is actually often eclipsed by a bombardment of thoughts of what could’ve been, or what could still be, but that nonetheless will never be. Witnessing this surreal juxtaposition between everyday life, and the sheer nothingness which dominates my isolated existence, brings with it an intensification of this inescapable isolation which is both numbing and excruciatingly palpable. Where other people have lives they can participate in, all I have instead is emotional vacancy, limp frustration, and a sadness that gnaws at me the way a dog compulsively gnaws at a bone. I see it all play out with my own two eyes, and although it’s not often that I’m in a position to observe the fullness of this world that everyone else occupies and enjoys, I’m left as nothing more than a clueless foreigner who’ll never know the unspoken language of life. Lost instead to a fate of shuffling meekly/invisibly around the edges of what will forever be to me a dismal earth that defies any kind of rational sense or participation.

When all that aforementioned rage fades, impotent as it is, all that’s left is an ever worsening existential exhaustion, that compounds and accelerates my mental/physical decay that much more. I’m getting older, my body’s falling apart from neglect and isolation, and one of the only things which remain for me to seek solace in is sleep, something that in turn only steals more of my worthless life away from me. We all have to make do with what we’ve got, I suppose, although some far moreso than others.


“I’ve lived so little that I tend to imagine I’m not going to die; it seems improbable that human existence can be reduced to so little; one imagines, in spite of oneself, that sooner or later something is bound to happen. A big mistake. A life can just as well be both empty and short. The days slip by indifferently, leaving neither trace nor memory; and then all of a sudden they stop.” – Michel Houellebecq (Whatever)

Nothing ever works out the way it should. Everything inevitably buckles beneath the weight of my own, and others, tiresome streaks of bullshit. I feel empty and unsatisfied alone, and I feel empty and unsatisfied when interacting with other people. There’s no way out. There’s nothing that can make any of this seem worthwhile or meaningful. Any permutation of my sad little existence only ever leads to the same outcomes taking place. No matter what I do, or where I go, or whomever I meet, I always circle back to this inescapably stagnant corner of sedentary lifelessness. I mean, it’s pretty hard to get away from something when it’s already beaten you to wherever it is you’ve gone, which will itself always feel like nowhere as a result. Not to mention whatever it is you’re doing, which will similarly always feel like nothing. Like an expanding sphere of darkness that matches every movement you make, you’ll never exceed the bounds of its limitless reach. For every 1 step forward you take, it takes 2. No matter which direction you move in, it’ll relentlessly cut you off at every turn.

As the above video indicates, there’s no getting away from life’s harshest truths. And honestly, I actually think this scene from the film is way more saddeningly relatable versus the book, because while in the book Raphael is supposed to be this hideously ugly mutant of nature, here he’s just some average looking nobody. As an average looking nobody myself, I find it just hits home especially hard, since it feels like it’s more speaking to his extremely poor social skills, stunted emotional development, weak sense of spirit, and just the general absence of ingredients in him which otherwise makes up a normally functioning individual, as altogether being the main reasons he’ll forever stay stuck in the suffocating state he’s in.

Fundamentally, it serves as a very painful reminder of thermonuclear proportions over the fact that someone like me was born without the means to participate in human relationships, let alone understand them. And that doubly goes for life as a whole. I’ll never know a sense of belonging, I’ll never know love, and I’ll also probably never be satisfied/fulfilled in anything either. I’ll either be able to come to terms with all that and find a modicum of tenuous acceptance in it someday, despite everything I’ll never have, or I won’t and I’ll instead suffer in limp frustration forevermore, until I finally just keel over dead at some point. All the while looking in the mirror each day and wondering just what the fuck is wrong with me.

Life is a constant struggle, and if someone lacks the strength to contend with this, for them, ultimately pointless struggling, then all you’re left with is two very awful possibilities. The first is a slow suicide, and the other is a fast suicide. You can either die a little death each day and kill yourself over the course of many years, one small cut of soul rending misery at a time, or you go for what is arguably the much more preferable option here, in terms of expediting this whole process of suicide along, and just getting it the hell over with already, thereby sparing yourself an inconceivable amount of needless pain and suffering in doing so. It’s an extremely sizable shame that, like myself, many are condemned to writhe helplessly in the former category, lacking all the necessary guts/nerve for them to opt for the latter. That being said, there are those individuals who, even after many years of being subjected to a slow suicide, can manage to push on through for an immediate suicide, and rarer still are those who find their way towards something that isn’t just some variation on suicide. When it comes down to it though, the unspeakably bleak reality is that there’s always going to be those unlucky enough to be locked away within their sterile tombs of sorrow until the bitter fucking end, and are in other words stuck with a slow suicide.

Like a person who’s been buried alive, they can either summon the strength for suicide and spare themselves the horror of their predicament, or lay there in agony and die anyway. There’s no use expecting rescue, despite all the nauseating survivorship bias from those infinitesimal few with such absurd luck to have had such a thing happen for them. Nor is this some dumb, B-grade movie, where you can simply punch, claw, and dig your way out to freedom. Horribly enough however, it’s exactly these sorts of absurdly fantastical feats that are routinely thrown in the faces of those suffering some of the worst fates a person can endure, and yet whom are then demanded by others ignorantly standing on the sidelines to do nothing short of the impossible, lest they be victim blamed and held in contempt for “wanting” to stay miserable. Like expecting someone who’s about to be swallowed up by quicksand to just somehow extend out their arms like Mr. Fantastic to grab a nearby vine or rope. Failing that, according to most everyone else, this worthless person must’ve just wanted to get sucked down into the dirt and die. These sorts of asinine attitudes are par for the course in this grotesquely delusional world, and its ubiquitously cancerous can-do culture.

Throughout it all, the underlying message from the majority of humanity is clear. If you’re truly too weak to live, then just fuck off and die already. And hey, fair enough, you damn dirty apes. It’s a dog eat dog, ruthlessly cannibalistic hellscape of a world out there. Even if I could, this pitiful little planet isn’t fit for living on in the first place, and if I had the option to blast this scummy blue/green ball of endless violence and venality out of existence, you can damn well bet that I would. As things are, I’m just another devil in a sprawling underworld overflowing with devils. Some vicious, some not so vicious, but each irredeemably vile all the same. The darkness within the human heart can only be starved into submission, even if that means the cost is a life worth living. Not that it was ever much of a choice for me either way. If my spirit weren’t as meek and brittle as it is, I’m sure I would’ve hurt and made miserable that many more people unfortunate enough to cross paths with me.