Dear Anyone Who Reads This Or This Blog,

Hi,

I'm a fucked up person who is sad and frustrated with my life.

I like to watch cartoons, eat cinnamon buns, do drugs, draw/paint, read, write, and watch forty year old men on pcp pass out in the middle of park ave in wilkes barre. I've been recently been reading literature from people classified as insane. These people would classified themselves as space cadets, or contractoros, doctors, or ingenous inventors of products people have never thought of, instead of writers, but their writing is more interesting, poetic, and touching than most of the books I have picked up in the past month. Because these people are none of these things and all of these things, which makes their writing illogical, grammatically incorrect, and broken, but it is honest and makes me feel something. And that something is beautiful and powerful. It's also something that will never sell.

I'm insane, but faking it. Actually normal and awkward are better descriptors .

I wish I was insane, but I'm not. More like hopeless, disappointed, and a failure.

I still work at a deli. I still have a job. I still have a degree. I still hate my job. Just like everbody else.

I'm just like everybody else.

Thank you for reading what I have to say.

I just wanted to say, "Hi, how are you?" because every morning I wake up think about how I am going to spend the next 14-16 hours interacting with myself, interacting with people, and it makes me feel like ssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttttttttttttt. Do you feel the same?

I can tell this isn't working because sociability isn't my thing.

I haven't scanned any images in, but I have drawings for sale.

No books for sale as of now because I am a piece of shit wannabe writer with zero confidence or dedication.