Number Five: Invisible

I just wanted to blog because I felt like telling someone. This is going to be a useless, pointless entry that won’t matter if I can cheerthefuckup in a few minutes, but I thought I’d write it anyway.

My hands don’t seem to be attached to my body. Have you ever felt that? Like, you look down at them, and you can see them, and you can see them moving and typing, but they’re definitely not a part of you. Like someone’s replaced your arms with robots that you control with your brainwaves that move according to how you want them to. But they’re definitely not part of your body, you know?

So in this prison, this sanctuary, this Hall of Doom, I can do no work. Attempting to study at home only increases my anxiety and the longer I spend here, the more I feel I’m wasting my time. Even actually doing work doesn’t feel like doing work- like that work is a waste of time that worky work work and the work work. If you didn’t get that, you’re stupid.

Nah, that’s mean. So here, in my cloak of black shadow borne from the inky black tears of the emo king himself, I wait.

No matter what I do, it feels like I’m wasting time. So I need to escape and do something, before the feeling of uselessness overwhelms me and I write a nonsensical blog entry about it.

I should just go do something before I stressthefuckout again.


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