Fuck you, too

What's going on, farmboy? How are you feeling? Any improvement since we talked the other day?

No, man, none at all. I thought things were improving, but they're not. They're back to the same old fuckin' shit, like they always are.

Who are 'they'?

Things. Every fuckin' thing. I can't lose weight or get in shape. I have a circus sideshow freak body that refuses to let me look or feel normal. I don't know what the fuck to do, man.

So all that anger gets filed away with the accident, my inability to have and keep friends, my complete lack of musical and lyrical talent, and the traumas and humiliations of my childhood, which I can't fuckin' get over. and, so now, here I am, broken and damaged. Thanks, life. Fuck you, too.

So now what, farmboy? Where do you go from here.

To Klonopin and weed, man. And food. And, hopefully, sleep. Anything to not have to think all the fuckin' time about how I am rejected from everything once again. I need to kill the hope inside of me before it gets me killed.

A fool never fuckin' learns, man.