At 35 I’ve really begun to feel the death of the possibility of love. After so many years spent alone where there was still hope, its starting to feel different. It might have been because of the Prozac and other prescription drugs I decided to take for a little while to try and get over things. They did a good job of taking the edge off. But they took away the excitement. I just don’t feel the hope anymore. And if I still had any friends left who weren’t completely absorbed in advancing their own interests by making copies of themselves they would tell me to there’s always a chance. Like I should constantly spend money on the lottery because there’s a chance. It takes a lot of the joy out of life this not feeling like you’re going to meet someone whose right for you. A lot of joy has been taken by identity politics and everyone’s demanding more and more. The emotional economy of self interest that isn’t bad in itself but doesn’t feel like it has any fair rules that will keep people from tearing each other’s eyes out and calling it justice. Like my parents going round and round fighting over the same grievances over and over with no resolution except divorce and a shitty childhood for me. At least I have the piece of internet property where anything I say goes and no one can contradict because it’s mine mine mine. That’s all I ever see on Facebook anymore. I always knew that was how it was going to be mentally. But now I’m feeling the emotional reality of it. I almost wish I could go back to the Christians, find some nice girl like the ones I saw dressed up on Sunday living I that world of make believe I used to live in where people are at least nicer in spite of everything. The skinny girls in the floral skirts. Somewhere far away from this place where people love to fight. I want to feel happy and make someone feel loved. Do things that matter instead of arguing about petty shit all the time. Was the fault in our stars after all, Dear Brutus? Nobody cares.