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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Philosopher's disjuncture

Is anything really what I believe it is? Anything?

Some days everything in the world is cold and dark and scary. Even me.

I am having a rootless moment. They come and they go, and I know this, and I have reached a lot of my stated goals in this life and am on target for more, but for some reason every now and then I look in the mirror and the first thing I think is "Fuck you," and it comes with vehemence and gritted snarling, and I don't even understand why.

There are people who probably never realize how much they are missed, not for their words, but for their silent company.

My throat hurts. I would curse the plague-bearers who have afflicted me thusly, but I also remember that I have been known to develop sore throats at times when I did not feel like talking.

I think about all the times I have tried to give advice to people feeling down, and damn, I must have sounded like quite the arrogant bastard, 'cause I know my advice never helps ME much. Say it with me now. "You arrogant bastard."

Actually, it's kind of hard to say without smiling. For me, anyway. Is that odd?

My thoughts are held together by chewing gum and bailing wire, today, rickety and of little merit. My mood is chemical, made of barometric pressure, lack of calories, and gestating sickness. I am going to heat myself some miso and chop myself some yellowtail sashimi, with an intent to either relax and feel better tomorrow.

Coughing sucks.

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