A Good Night's Waste

One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and the internets. Restless, racing mind glancing over a billion petabytes of filth flarn filth and 50% of the digital population sharing information between sessions of self abuse and the other 50% demanding they cite a source while self abusing. The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo needs writing but I'm no writer so it stays neglected and I call it asshole for existing half formed and fully nagging. I'm no writer. A little closer to four in the morning and I'm still not feeling so great. Slept for twelve hours, could've slept more but guilt at lonely, neglected originators who brought rapidly cooling sustenance berates me until I rouse. Ate too much chinc food, a gooky meal of nothing my body needs and it lets me know. Atrophying muscles are shaky and weak like in my dreams. Lack of exercise, withdrawals or something worse? Two and a half pounds of caffeine infused liquid sugar does nothing to quell the shaking or dreamlike mindset so I sleep more. Too much sleep is no good for you but great for me. Getting up and sitting to write infuriates and depresses. Life isn't for me. Unfortunately two and a half thousand milligrams of tramadol failed to kill me and varying doses of extended release methylphenidate fails to cure me. Varying doses. Originally prescribed 18mg by the slanty eyed impostor at Inquisition Charities. I varied the doses of my own desperate accord when 18mg did fuckall. Varied; 18, 18, 36, 54, 72, 90, nothing. Fuck you Dr. Jeung and the dumpling you rode in on. Don't get me right, I love homo-sapiens from the Asiatic nations as much as I love homo-sapiens from any nation. That is to say not at all. Take it personally. Five minutes to four in the morning. How many seconds is that? I'm no mathematician. 300.