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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 23, 2017

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Submitted: September 23, 2017



Im bored.
I sigh deeply.
I think this while staring into my laptop.
My attention turnes to the alchohol but my interest does not spike.
I look to my paint, painting seems dull and writing seems hardly entertaining.
I would eat but all the food takes effort to chew, cardbord with tomato sauce.
I dont really want to see anyone or talk, dont really want to play my guitar.
So i  sit in bed and stare at the cealing feeling comepletely dead. I can pretend to have feeling but in truth i dont really feel anything.
Nothing seems interesting, all i want is to smoke a cigaret and give my brain dopomine.
Im sick of feeling sick and im not really sure what my body is doing. A sick feeling makes me not want to eat anything. I dont really care enough to see anyone for it.
I dont really feel lonely or any kind of anything, except for the slight loss of life in me.
The only thing im excited for really is to put my lips around a cigaret. I want to smoke weed but in truth im not sure if my body agrees, it seems like walking down the street will take more effort then im willing to excrete.
To be honest im not sure if it bothers me, the only thing im thinking about is the things that im not doing.
All that seems bother me is that everything is nothing.

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