November 15 at Dab Smack Nowhere Near
Detangle decipher and decide i am damaged goods and like all damaged goods i must be destroyed
i am a rock and when a rock i am not then i should perish and turn to dust
i have a shelf life and you are not special.
You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying pessimistic organic matter as everything else. We’re all part of the same compost heap. We’re all singing, all dancing crap of the world.
I’m never going to accomplish anything; that’s perfectly clear to me. I’m never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of The Who’s Who of anything. I don’t do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don’t even do that any more.
I’ve found it takes at least two and generally three things to alter the course of a life: You slip around the truth once, and then again, and one more time, and there you are, feeling, for a moment, that it was sudden, your arrival at the bottom of the decaying compost heap. where is that beautiful snowflake now, and who was the genius who decided World Kindness Day and National man make dinner Day needed to converge with National Clean Out Your Refrigerator day?
This glut of good vibes threatens to overwhelm an otherwise delightfully gloomy autumn, crowding out exactly the kind of misery and self-doubt one needs for cultivating more substantial inspiration. As an antidote to all this cheerleading, we refer you to some of the most nail biting, self-deprecating pessimists who ever managed (somehow) to keep putting pen to paper. I am referring to any of my previous post here on this page.
