nigger

I don’t know what to write. I highly doubt anyone would read it, anyway. And even if they did read it, I highly doubt it would make them want to have anything to do with me in any sort of positive way, which is what I would like.

Truth is, I’m not really sure what the truth is.

I’m sitting at the Huddle House. I’ve had so many good times here. It’s been a while, though.

That was back when I had friends that wanted to hang out with me regularly.

This is stupid. I would be completely fine if I just dropped dead right now. If only.

Being a 37 year old balding faggot with bad teeth, schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, no job or car, and living with his parents who hate him sucks. I’m sure it could somehow be worse, though. I could be fat, I guess.

I want some goddamn drugs. For real. Or someone to hang out with—someone I want to hang out with that wants to hang out with me. Or a guy to cuddle with that I want to cuddle with and who wants to cuddle with me. Or both would be amazing. If only.

I went to the doctor the other day. She sent in a referral to a psychologist and pain clinic for me. They said to call back the middle of next week if I still haven’t heard anything. We’ll see.