Better Living Through Purging

Cleaning out my garage is like untying a knot, trying to find the best place to start to make a difference. So sad, the many things that go there to die. I mean, go there and die. Like you. Because I have put you off feeling, I think, and I can hardly imagine a worser crime. Got that shaky head feeling, maybe its the adrenaline rush as a biological manifestation from a stark and new understanding of my own humanity or maybe its just the beginning of a nutrition headache. Hard to say at this point, but all will be revealed when I either crash or just simply get crabbier. Its true, I'm an unrepentant elitist with an inadequacy complex that devours me, and he loves me (he thinks) better than he's ever loved anyone (I wish) and I will continue to delude myself like all of those activist idiots who believe that human nature could ever be satisfied with what it has. Because that delusion is all I have (in which to believe.) Because things get dusty and objects break and possessions annoy me and because you will say that I need god and I will say I need it like I need mercury poisoned while getting my back patted and simultaneously getting a hole in my head. What I need is to do is to find a way to politely and grammatically-correctly argue that the biggest issue facing America is the irrelevance of democracy, moreover, the irrelevance of government, and I need to do it in an eight paragraph minimum. And also, to get over myself? Recreating paradise is always a bad idea but if the only bad thing you can say about the girl is that she is in need of a fresh dye job, then I am sincerely fucked. Figuratively speaking. I wish I could quadruply filter my thoughts but they overfill the funnel and pour over the sides and while I have bitterly shared you for all these years, I still don't got no regrets in my life (but the one.) Who am I kidding here, there is just too much that time cannot erase and I am so afraid that this is to my detriment, but you still have all of me. It is a which came first sitchyation: the ends or the means? To waste time thinking about such things is one of the smallest acts of the smallest mind. Like mine.

I need to feel the faustian white hot burn of his devotion. And I have sucked all of it out of him. Figuratively speaking.