So I slept for 12 hours the other day. The kidney caused this sudden tiredness. Or maybe it was the new pill – I don’t know. I shall find out at the doctor’s this afternoon…
I can’t help believing that there’s something uncontrollably wrong with my mind and body – like an inappropriate collision is about to happen. It took me a while to figure out that this routine triggered this obsessive-compulsive behaviour; the need to clean and food shop – it’s driving me crazy. But this is the only way to function independently. If I only could care a little more, fake it, maybe, or pretend.
Some are wondering why I still follow Vincent Gallo on Twitter and why he’s still in my heroes’ album since he’s proven to be a racist prick. This is not the point. All my heroes carry one characteristic that I have, admire or envy. Gallo is spiteful. What do I care about all my heroes as persons? I care about achievements and one outstanding characteristic – this is all. And I dream about marrying them.

I’m becoming more and more terrified about September. I admit that I don’t want to work because it’s going to deteriorate my health. All I’m qualified for is working in retail, and I know it will cause kidney failure, eczema, or a nervous breakdown. This is a world where you wished you were no artist because the job earns you no money. So, why am I not a rational accountant?
Things are like this because they are like this. Full stop. The reason why this and that is wrong is because of this and that. Full stop.
Why do I want to break boundaries and look beneath the surface of everything? Why do I refuse to be like anyone else and accept the way things are? Why don’t I find a man and squeeze out a puppy? Why can’t I just simply fuck anybody? FUCK FUCK FUCK anybody! Why don’t I drink nonetheless – fuck the redness on my face and no matter if my fucking eyes narrow to ugly thin slits! They are thin slits anyhow! Slit, slit, slit!!! Ugly slits!
Where am I again…

Ah, right, I went to see Pagliacci yesterday. It wasn’t as good as Madame Butterfly. I hate how that opera show was primarily based on Pagliacci’s wife, the whore and how we are to empathise with her. Pagliacci killed her and her lover. Does anyone empathise with Pagliacci? I didn’t have the feeling they did…As if adultery was something acceptable in a play like that.
And as previously mentioned in my unpublished blog entry: I’ve been going to the opera on my own. Sorry to those I’ve been lying to. I’ve not been going with a friend. Therefore, yes, I lied to you. I just don’t want your pity or you to feel upset that I didn’t ask you to join me.
I wanted to be alone.
Alone. So let’s go to the cinema instead? But not on the 13th of next month, as I’ll be watching the original Madame Butterfly. On my own.
It’s not even afternoon yet, and I’ve already closed the curtains. This terrible draft is making my kidneys feel cold. I’ve been stuffing that fucking slit at the window with a cloth. One day I’m gonna stuff this whole town with a cloth.

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