Somewhere in the insanity of my mind, I forgot the existence of this place. A place full of perverts, creeps, and weirdos, and some nice folks too. I have nothing to share, or at least nothing worth your time. So spend it somewhere else.

Entry two

(Read number one first!!!!! READ IT!)
https://www.furaffinity.net/journal/8374213/

Journal = a daily record of news and events of a personal nature; a (masculine) diary.

I woke up this morning, as I do most mornings, and examined my surroundings. I didn't wake up on one of my four bed quadrants, in fact, I didn't wake up on my bed at all. The lights were still on in the kitchen from my kool-aid drinking binge the night before. It was an odd sensation, awakening with no predetermined mood. I couldn't really say whether or not I had awoken on the right or wrong side of the bed. The next several waking hours of my existence were sure to be emotionless and boring. Best to get it over with. The cold handle of the coffee pot sat flush with my palms as I poured a glass (not a mug) of cold dark coffee (such as to relate to my soul) and squirted a generous amount of toothpaste in it. The goal was to clean my teeth at the same moment I stained them, it seemed like a legitimately good idea at the time. The odd mixture passed through my lips, and a moment later I was bent over the sink spitting it out. It wasn't due to the toothpaste, it was due to the fact that I had just recalled my personal relationship with coffee. I FUCKING HATE COFFEE. Let that marinate in your brain as you meditate to whatever dull shit you listen to while tying to find your "zen". Coffee is literally the piss of demons. I calmly placed the glass down on the counter. My position of wake determined the fact that I would not display any emotion. I did not wake up in any of the four bed quadrants that dictate my day.
I stared at myself in the mirror with a bland expression. My face was all red, the shower was full on hot as I had used the cold water tank to flood the basement (always wanted that indoor swimming pool). The reflection stared back at me. I could almost see the middle finger he was giving me with those eyes. On any other day I would have gotten angry, but today was not any other day.
I skipped brushing my teeth, as I did that with my coffee, then did four jumping jacks out in the hallway to constitute my daily exercise. The couch felt inviting as I sank down into the cushions, the soft vinyl caressing my ass. I felt awkward so I stood up and decided to venture outside for the first time in quite a while. I waked to the end of the porch before deciding that I had enough. Retreating back into my dark cave of dismal misery and abysmal disappointment, I scoured the shag carpet for remnants of food. It had to have been at least a week since there was any form of edible food in the house.
I briefly thought of contacting my mother, but I knew that I had disappointed her. I threw away any chance I had at a happy and fulfilling life by becoming an artist. My art consisted of audio recordings of me moaning in misery at the outcome of my current predicament (kidding, I doodle a little).
My eyes rested on the pistol on my countertop. I didn't recall ever seeing that there before, but didn't hesitate to pick it up, cock it, and stick it in my mouth. I had read somewhere briefly that aligning the barrel with the roof of the mouth spells instant death, (metaphor, it doesn't literally spell "instant death.") so I decided why the hell not. I took a few moments to savor the metallic taste and the idea of human unconsciousness before deciding that the seagull in my attic was a better recipient of the bullet than me. Being the normal person I am, I decided to prolong my suffering and give my "get out of jail (or purgatory...or whatever this shit is) free card" to the dumb mindless bird upstairs. I trudged up the steps and opened the door to the attic, letting the wooden staircase descend like a dove from heaven. The bird was up there. It just stared at me. I thought about re-watching every episode of Sherlock instead of killing the bird, but it was a fleeting idea. To be honest though, that bird could have been my only friend. I shot it. I guess some people just can't have anything nice.
A wave of regret washed over me. That bullet would have felt damn good lodged inside my skull. I actually began to feel upset that I shot the bird rather than myself, but then again, today was going to be an emotionless day. It wasn't as freeing as I thought I would be. I still felt trapped in my mind, just the prison cell was empty, not full of shit I didn't want to be thinking about.
The sky was dark when I stepped out back to water my garden. My homemade solution of Clorox and paint thinner wasn't having the desired effect on the pizza bush I planted last week. Also, the dimensional portal had completely radiated the green beans. I was officially out of food. Damn. Time to go out...to...the...store.
I laughed. What a silly idea. Me? Go to the fucking store? Wow. In an alternate universe, maybe, but not here, not now, not ever.
The mailman dropped off the mail, well, he didn't, but I'd like to think he did. I sorted through the imaginary letters and tore open the one from my "friend".
"Greetings asshole." It said.
"Howdy shitface," I responded.
"I can't believe you're talking to a fucking letter you retard."
"God! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"At least my mother would kiss me."
Low blow.
I tore up the dismal letter and made my way down the front hall. The telephone rang in the next room, and I briefly thought about how awkward it would be if I died on a phone conversation. They'd probably think I was a dick to just drop off like that. I let the phone ring, basking in delight at the perceived frustration for the person waiting for me to pick up.
My day slowly wound down and came to a rest. It was dark outside, I was hungry, tomorrow I would find food. I would go hunting in the shag carpet first and bring down something good. Perhaps a tick, maybe a mite. Who knows.
I made sure to inject myself with Sodium Pentothal for honest dreaming before getting into my knees and praying to my patron saint Fred Astaire.
"Teach me to dance like a good dancer," I mumbled in my drugged up state.
"I can't teach you. I'm dead," he responded.
"Any advise?"
"Yeah. Stop being a dumbass and praying to people who can't hear you, don't care about you, and have no role in your life whatsoever."
I nodded and said "okay." I think he flipped me off.
The lights were turned off, so it was rather dark. It was pretty easy to make a stupid-ass noise with my mouth and pretend that I had high-tech night vision goggles stapled to my face. I lay down and began to jerk......my......blankets around until they settled nicely....
Anyway, that was my horribly uninteresting day.

So...
Don't eat glow in the dark mushrooms, and PLEASE, don't fuck Dutch Angel Dragons. They're too cute and innocent...you prevented sociopathic bastard.
So yeah, don't fuck D.A.Ds....lol...dads...don't do that either.

I say crazy things when I'm sleep deprived. I'm sorry. This has all been shit, and I don't usually curse this much. My life hit a wall and I'm bored. Save me from myself.

I need to bleach my brain.

Cheers (I'm 100% legit American)
Austin.

Journal = a daily record of news and events of a personal nature; a (masculine) diary.

I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror and said, "shut the fuck up you son of a bitch." That's how I kicked off my day. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or rather, wrong quadrant. You see, my bed is divided into four sections. Upper left is "pissy", lower left is "out-of-my-mind insane", upper right is "stoned (but not really)", and lower right is "tacky, tasteless, and traumatized". When I happen to wake up in all four quadrants at once, I know it's going to be a fairly normal day. My bead spread is the Cartesian coordinate plane, and I woke up in quadrants 1 and 3, with my back awkwardly arched over the joint intersection of 2 and 4 (I'm a wild sleeper).
I kind of half stumbled and shuffled my way down the stairs, with one foot occasionally skipping a step jarring the bones in my body. That was the first quadrant kicking in. The kitchen was dark, I hadn't purchased new light bulbs in months, but I don't really care about that. I just make a weird noise and pretend I have high-tech military night-vision goggles stapled to my face (quadrant 3). So, there in the darkened kitchen, I poured a cup of cold black coffee, cold and black like my soul. Then I started laughing hysterically because I remembered that I FUCKING HATE COFFEE!!!! Seriously, whoever brought that messed up machine into the house should just go to hell (it was me...).
I sat and cried over my disappointing life for two hours before getting up to grab breakfast. Unfortunately, all I could find was a stale cupcake and some crumbs. I also hadn't purchased food for quite some time. I skipped breakfast, because we all know cupcakes are pure evil, then I went to go make myself presentable to whoever I might encounter during the day. My comb had too few teeth, and I forgot how the razor worked, so I ended up somehow showering in my pajamas with toothpaste in my hair.
The rest of the morning was a struggle. My pants wouldn't fit over my arms, and for some dumbass reason, my belt was too big for my ankles. I could see myself staring back at me from the mirror. A look of pure hatred. God I hate the dude on the other side of the glass. "What're you looking at? Punk," I spat. He just stood there smugly. Rage boiled in the depths of my empty heart. He smiled. "Stop looking at me."
"You can't tell me what to do," the mirrored reflection answered back.
And that was it, I reared back and punched the mirror, his fist collided mine at the exact same time on the other side of the glass.
"It's not a fist-bump you asshole!" I screamed at him. Seriously, living with this dude is a nightmare. Taking a few deep breaths, I decided to leave him be. I had discovered over the years, that he can't actually come through the glass, so it's pretty easy to ignore him for the better part of the day.
It was about lunchtime when I finally finished in the bathroom. I stepped out back for a moment to water my garden with my homemade miracle grow, a solution of paint thinner and Clorox. Works great. Tastes great too.
I was relatively hungry by that time, but the only food item was that decrepit cupcake staring at me from the countertop. I despised the way it looked at me, so I took the rifle from the mantle and blew a hole through its pitiful gluten-based form...and subsequently, the glass tile backsplash. Wow, I'm such an idiot.
Sooooo....I decided to then hit the store (not physically hit it, it's a metaphor. I was just gonna drive up, buy some shit and go home). But then I realized, not only that I shouldn't start a sentence with a conjunction, but also that my front door was boarded up with a sign that said "do not go outside, you will regret it." Well okay ominous-weird-person I don't know. Don't know why I listened to you, but I did.
Later I discovered my toilet was flooding. Well, it had never really stopped, it's just that whenever I turn away from it I forget about it. Some odd mindfuck. Whatever. For the cursing sensitive, I'll stop...sorry.
Anyway, back to my f....fu...fried-chicken-crap of a day. I tried to calculate the amount of vegetables I had in my garden, I really was starting to get hungry...had been for days. Just needed to know how long those green beans would last me, so I divided by zero and a huge fu...freaking hole got ripped through the space time continuum. Sorry Einstein, but you seriously should have warned us about that one. So now I have this odd physics phenomenon happening in my garden, so my green beans are probably radiated. Well shi...shoot.
Nearing dinner time, no dinner, so it's just time. Time for what I ask, time for a Nilla-Wafer top hat I answer. Kidding. Time to collapse in bed an reminisce my wasted life. Cry over lost opportunities, forgotten pastimes, crushed dreams, and dead goldfish. Wow, this shi..stuff got deep fast.
Then I stubbed my toe. Twice. And I said, "God dam...bless mother fu-reaking son of a b-badger basking batshi-ushi dried ramen noodles...ARGH!!!!! screw the close quote. You know what. Fuck! Why do people have some sort of personal vendetta against some SIMPLE SOUNDS? Seriously people! These guttural utterances that we speak forth when angered are JUST SOUNDS! Mother fucker! Father fucker! Whatever the fucker!! WHY?
I broke a sweat typing that.
Well, it's bedtime. I curled up in the corner of the bed, not in my pajamas, or my going out clothes. I haven't really figured out how to get dressed today. Then I mast...ya know what, this is getting way too freaking personal.
I threw the lamp to the ground. It was the last working light and it smashed. Who needs lights anyway, especially when you can make a stupid retard noise and pretend you have super high-tech night vision goggles stapled to your face.
I knelt down and prayed to my patron saint Van Gogh (or however you spell it). I asked him to teach me how to become less socially awkward, and he told me to cut off my left ear. I said "thank you," and he said, "you're fucking weird for thinking I can actually talk back to you, let alone would want to talk to such a hopeless, miserable, defunct, dismal pile of shit." I nodded and said, "I know."
Then it was back to bed. I injected myself with sodium pentothal, so that I would have more honest dreams before laying carefully down in all four bed quadrants. Thank you René Descartes, for making my life complete. (No, we didn't date dumbass, he invented the Cartesian Coordinate Plane which I use on my bed...funny enough, he invented it while in bed. *close parentheses*
And that concluded my day.

I bet none of you people actually read this all the way through. If so, how many times did I (God forbid) start a sentence with a conjunction?

Time to go die...in a ditch.

Curse you government for taxing my ditch...it's mine...not yours...I dig it in the past tense. You didn't.

Cheers (I'm not fucking British.)
Austin.

Intelligence is relative, take the physicist and the artist for example. Some have a natural inclination to understand the roles of neutrinos in an atomic collision and the beta-decay aftermath, while others are more mentally inclined to understand the natural shape of clouds and how to best represent the highlights and contrast in a painting. If the nuclear phycisist were to paint the clouds, he would not understand the basic brush strokes and how they effected the outcome of his image, or the structures and the shading, and would instead contemplate nuclear fission as two pigments collided on his palate. The latter, when working on a hadron collider, would be more inclined to observe the colorful equipment then the rapidly decaying ions bursting beautifully before him. Though vastly different, we cannot deny the fact that the Physicist and the Artist are both geniuses. It was Albert Einstein who said, "if you judge a fish by its ability to climb trees, it will spend its entire life thinking it is stupid."