Confessions of an Unsigned Artist (1.7)

1.13 

life is not allowing me accumulate enough money to live like I choose…why? I’m not sure…

as I lay here between fear and tiresome anxiety, I rest assure on the reality of being fearful to just exist. I truly don’t even know what the real worth is in life for me except freedom. I hold on to that amid everything else. 

I’ve exhausted myself of reaching out any further to new jobs because it’s truly useless. Since…I’ve been cursed. The coldness of it is that no one really cares. That was a reality that I’d already embraced. But it comes full circle when you’re forced to embrace whether or not you’ll be anally penetrated daily. Such makes the reality of women long term running away from ya, content ridden. A true reality for me is that when I’m passing women, if I look at them, they always look away. If I look away, they peer towards me. Such makes my perspective about them both jaded and true. Unless you have a daughter, which all women are (and even if you do have a daughter), you kinda have to view them both as wonderful and not worth s*** simultaneously. My agility in overlooking them has become more agile toward my comfort vs knowing that I must recite their names daily for success with them. Let’s face it, sitting alone in a room everyday dating my television and Mac screen is not my innate idea of romance. Yet such for the likes of me, is reality…

 

who knows? Maybe I’m just hungry. I get ill thoughts when I’m hungry…

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