Fuck I fucked up now they’re homeless for a night. Would my money have bought them a motel for a night? How long until her husband’s paycheck?

Incompetence is real.

Now what do I do to get my mind off?

Work hasn’t gone well in ages. It’s like one day every few months that I actually enjoy. No one reads this, no one cares about me. My family does. But somehow that doesn’t penetrate.

It’s just a damned car for a night or two. Is it really that bad? I don’t see what the problem is.

What if I rethink my mind and don’t help her? Because I think it’s a scam?

I don’t know what else to say. Everything I do is so pointless. There’s no life or sustenance anywhere. My stomach is always in pain, upset. Blue satchel of tobacco, unsmoked, still on my desk. Like a lawyer Tom Sawyer. I want to read something amazing but I can’t because I have adult onset ADD. It’s suhc amiserbal existence.

Collected works by the aviary.

Nothing I write matters. Nothing can get me out of my hole of indifference. Nothing entertains me. I’m lost.

What do I do when I can’t even remember the trite two things Iwas going tosay. What what what. I can’t even remember. I need friends. It’s not a desire. It’s a need. I am so utterly self-insufficient in morale, it’s bleak it’s stylyzed. It’s sickening like the wolf hound propaganda. I wonder if my family will telepathically harass me tonight again.

I don’t want to read stories. THey all have the same voice. Story voice. Why can’t something novel something.

I”m lost. I don’t have anywhere to go. The tide is coming.

There should be something to do on the computer. I desperately need to talk to someone. Everything I say is pointless.

My life is so pointless and — key, it may nto seem so but key — I have bad memory. I can’t remember how much I wanted to stay in bed this morning now that I have the time and access to my bed. What do I do. Nothing I say matters. I can’t defend myself. I really fucked up with the donation. Now she has to stay in her car with her kid the whole night. I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just a week of homelessness. Tomorrow morning, $100 for you.

My family doesn’t love me. I haven’t loved anything in a while.

I’m such a useless piece of shit and no one likes it. No one likes. I don’t like anything anything anyone writes. I don’t like what I write except sometimes. I can’t read because everything is bad.

All of this is so pointless. Why is there so often a gun to my head.

Why is everything so bad. Why is this blogging service so bad. Where do I go to socialize on the internet?

Why is everyone on here so bland? (I’m currently friend hunting on Medium). Everyone has the same voice. What alien collective did this to my people.

Who are these people? And they’re restricting my freedom of speech by pre-emptively scolding me for being negative about their writing, in my head. How police state can you get. I HATE restricted freedom of speech. Talking is the only thing that keeps me sane (it doesn’t work very well). Where am I going. I don’t know what to do. This is trash. The next one is trashery. There’s no pattern. It’s a flux. It’s a cabin. I hate it. I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know how to find friends on here. I can only read through the garbage for so long. That’s what I spend most of my time doing, did you know; sifting through garbage. The gold rush was real: it was a fraud. No one found anything. I know that personally now.

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