Violence and Danger

My whole world seems to have unraveled a month before my 33rd year.

First week of the new year, I've barely been here.

I've been upstate, with the mom and sis. Playing crazy 8s and go fish.

Back to the city with sis for a few days. Tried out bouldering. Finally went to see August: Osage County.

January 7th. Day before my birthday. Day my sister heads back to Oregon and I'm back to dealing with the broken pieces of my life on my own.

My mind remains volatile. There is a self-destructive aspect of myself that has been triggered and keeps setting off. I've gotten back to writing more and hopefully I'll be able to channel some of my frustrations into something productive... but the fact remains that my fuel is hatred.

Self-hatred.

These things that I do, these things that may seem positive and healthy... going to the gym, finishing up some new screenplay drafts, writing a new full-length play... these things are really outlets to punish myself. I am completely fucking broken inside and I simply can't give two fucks.

Day before my 33rd year and I can't forgive myself for all that I've done wrong. For all that I've fucked up. It may be irrational. My rage ought to be directed elsewhere. But at this hour, I can't contain that self-critical part of me that just will not let up. This isn't some kind of tortured artist bullshit. This is me genuinely fucking despising myself and my ticker tape parade of failures. I deserve destruction. I've earned it.

This is my new prayer.

Hallelujah, motherfuckers.

This is the way the world ends.