‘When I write baby, I’m the hero of my shit.’ Profound words if you ask me. I’m not the first nor will I be the last to try. To try. To try to risk everything in attempt to truly express everything. Within these pages; a haven for the sinners, the confessions of a twenty first century teen. A generation that normalised depression or suffered the most from it at a young age. I forget. Never truly taught how to love ourselves, so instead we replace that love with likes and double taps and retweets and whatever the fuck else. We want money as if money is the secret life. Or maybe it is. I’ve wasted countless hours on fighting boredom. Wasted feelings on lust driven missions. I’m tired, I’m tired of saying I’m tired. I wanna sleep for a week and ten days. I want everyone to disappear.
The Waiting Room
“Klank klank” goes the door, the women are having their usual gossip spree. Everybody’s bored, the tv’s spewing out crap and the losers are eating it up. What a dump. Most can’t stand the wait, ‘they have better things to do with their time’. A moral dilemma gets presented to you. But you’re a good person right? There’s no colour in this place it all dried up along with the humanity.