They’re all sluts to me, I think as I accelerate my justification. We’re all slutty, I say, all those I associate with, and it’s not a big deal.
My God, it’s whatever we give meaning to, whatever we so desire. I’ve thought about it much more recently, and I don’t know if it helps me quell the itching insanity, the thought that I might be wasting my time, preparing to become a mangy cuckold in a few years because I could never stand up for a belief, one I could even find worth my time.
There’s always death, the dismal acceptance of wasted time, because death is what we all deserve...the feeling beforehand is fabricated. It all is.
OK, so I can get a job and help people somehow. Does even THAT hold meaning for me; meaning, do they even exist in my reality? I like to think so, but it’s much easier to believe what I do not like because the truth hurts, it leaves scars, and it’s steadily creeping about my consciousness as blood is dispelled in streams through flat water.
