I stare at the bottle of Zoloft, wondering if I should try a quarter dose. I’m not exactly sure why would I.
life seems empty sometimes, a void that cannot be filled by sex and drugs. (Weed helps me to forget, but that isn’t necessarily helpful either.)
Then again, maybe there is no real point to existence. Maybe it is the belief that every moment is many to be full of purpose that causes us grief.
And yet, the voices of those less fortunate cry out in the distance, pleasing for someone to show a bit of empathy.
I’d like to help you, I really would. But please pardon me, I’m a little fucked up myself. Some breathing room, a pencil and paper, and I’ll be right as rain.