#daily rant

I've just applied for a job. I believe this is the first, real step to truly mimicking the life of a sex-having neurotypical.

I must be an entitled little bitch if I think I'm ever going to get it. But something tells me I will. I’ve got a feeling in my stomach.

Or maybe it's the knowledge that my friend works there. And, y'know, my future prospects aren't complete shit.

Academically, that is. Like, on paper. Every other aspect of my life is lodged in the fucking gutters. [15:22]

[ . . . ]

I was at the bar a couple of days ago. I was trying to pay for my beer when I accidentally typed in the wrong PIN code. I fucked it up three times, so the assholes at the bank deactivated my credit card, unbeknownst to me.

I can't phone them about it. It’s final. I'll have to order a new one. It’ll take a week for it to arrive, and it'll cost me a fuck ton.

Thank you for looking out for me. Seriously. I can’t thank my bank enough.

Hey! Let's say a crazed crackhead walks up to me at the urinal, hits me over the head with a glass bottle and steals my credit card. He runs to the nearest cashpoint, and before he withdraws cash, he has to guess my PIN code.

What exactly are the odds of him getting it right on the fourth attempt? Help me understand this.

Oh, so he drools all over the keypad throughout the first three attempts, and then on the fourth, his neurons magically activate after two decades of grueling methamphetamine abuse, and he guesses it right instantaneously. Thousands of combinations, and he just so happens to choose the correct one.

That’s what you're doing here? Oh, you're saving me from getting robbed with that three-attempt limit. Holy shit! I should go down to your headquarters and suck off every weaselly little fuck you have working there, just for coming up with that spectacle of an idea. I'll let every guy at the office fuck me raw until my prostate’s bleeding.

Sure, just steal those $31 from me. That’s really all the assfucking I need. Get me a new bullshit card, please. It's not like I was going to use that money tonight, or tomorrow, or for the rest of the fucking week. It's not like I was thinking of getting drunk on a Friday night, or whatever. No, no, no. Let me just beg my friends every time I want a fucking beer. Let me ask my parents if I can take their credit cards to the liquor store.

Or maybe I’ll just sit inside and wait for the bank to give me permission to have fun again.

You intolerable fucking retards. Kill yourselves, or I'll go down there and I'll kill every single one of you with my bare hands.

I had to embarrass myself at the liquor store today because of your stupid fucking policy. Maybe give a warning after the second attempt next time. Brainlets. [16:35]

[ . . . ]

Every night used to have a breath of its own. You could feel it. You used to feel giddy after Saturday dinner. [18:34]

[ . . . ]

I’m so fucking anxious. I can feel it in my throat.

I don’t know what I did wrong.

It’s everything.

It’s that I can’t drink. It’s that a couple of relatives are visiting tomorrow, and that nobody told me about it. It’s that I can’t get away from this shitty fucking family for more than an afternoon. It’s that I can’t get the sound of their insufferable voices out of my head.

It’s that I’m bored of out of my fucking mind, wondering what in the hell I’m still doing here. Genuinely. What the fuck am I doing?

I could’ve had balls. I know I’m ugly and retarded, but that never necessitated that I be be raised to live out my putrid, pathetic existence as a fucking pussy.

If I had any guts, I’d pull a McCandless. I’d spend the rest of my life wandering down untrodden highways, sleeping in dumpsters, snatching beers off of bar tables, nagging strangers at the gas station for sandwiches, whatever.

Instead I’m sitting in this smelly fucking bedroom with two crusty cum tissues hidden under my bed, nothing to do, and nobody worth seeing. And I can’t even get shitfaced.

I should just fall asleep and forget about it. [20:33]

[ . . . ]

If I don’t get the fuck out of this house in two minutes, I’m rushing into the kitchen, grabbing the sharpest knife I can find, running into the living room, stabbing my dad in the stomach fifty times over, twisting the knife around until he loses consciousness, carving his eyeballs out with my blood-stained fingers and pissing on his fat corpse. [21:02]

[ . . . ]

I hadn’t even put on my first sock when my mom burst into my room and started asking me what the wheather was going to be like on Monday.

What the fuck do I know? Google it? It takes twelve seconds, you fat cunt.

No, turns out she just wanted to nag me about the state of my bedroom. Wouldn’t want our relatives barging in there and seeing my odious collection of crusty cum receptacles lying out in the open, huh? [21:36]

[ . . . ]

To the teenage couple I just saw race each other on their bicycles, I hope the guy falls off his bike, lands on his neck, breaks it, and spends the rest of his life in a fucking wheelchair.

There’s nothing I hate more in this world than inept authority figures telling me how I should feel about certain people.

You don’t tell me who the fuck I like or dislike.

So when your slimy excuse of a dad tells you to clean your room - because, oh, «!» there’s an aunt coming to visit tomorrow - you might feel inclined to punch his fat fucking throat in.

Why should I give a fuck about this lady? I haven’t met her since I was five years old, you ugly trog. So what if she came out of the same pussy as my dad? She’s just some stupid fucking whore off the street to me. I don’t want to meet her son. I don’t want them in this house, or anywhere near me.

She’s going to talk to me for, like, fifteen minutes, ask me about school, ask me if I’ve made any money this summer, and then you’re all going to sit in your retarded little circle and exchange boring monologues in some goatfucker language I don’t even speak. She doesn’t actually care about me, because she doesn’t fucking know me. All the while, I’m having to take her retarded son out to the pubs and pretend like we don’t have fuck all in common.

You haven’t spoken to this woman in more than a decade. The only reason you’re inviting her to your house is because you think forgiving all the people who wronged you is going to make you a better person. Well it’s not, you fucking idiot. You’re still a stupid, gullible manlet.

My friend and I were standing around in a fairly secluded spot last night. A junction of sorts in the local woodlot. We’d just had our hits, and we were anticipating the come-up. I was about to put on a song.

This guy comes up to us and starts asking for directions. He was pretty friendly, so when he began making small talk, we didn’t exactly object. We were just looking for something to kill the boredom.

He was strangely talkative. We figured he was drunk, or maybe just a little autistic. I mean, so were we. He was a few years older than us. White guy, large beard, millennial dress. Looked like a retired hipster. Somebody you could share a cigarette with. Somebody you wouldn't mind conversing with for a minute or two.

What ensued was an eighty-minute rant on his part. No kidding. He rambled on for an hour, non-stop. He talked faster than anybody I’ve ever met. We couldn’t get a fucking word in. He was jumping from topic to topic with zero coherence. No consideration for our thoughts or feelings, and no pauses whatsoever. He went from yapping about music, to serial killers, to gay people, to pedophiles, to kindergartens, to prostitution, to rehabilitation, to his friends, to psychedelics, to gypsies, to ADHD, to trans people, to his mother, to robberies - he wouldn’t shut the fuck up. He was spilling water on himself and pacing back and forward like a stupid sperg. It was like listening to a caffeinated chimpanzee.

The drugs were working as expected, and things were starting to feel like a little too much for me. It was such an abysmal contradiction of energies.

Time felt like it was standing still. My friend compared it to the time dilation of an acid trip. Not that I, uhm, would know anything about that.

He was just so fucking boring.

I had to sit down after about fifty minutes of listening. I thought I was descending into psychosis. I couldn’t stand up, my breathing was compromised, the blood had left my face, I was on the brink of vomiting my intestines out, and all I could hear was this fucking retard yapping.

It was only near the end of the conversation that he admitted to self-medicating with black-market amphetamines. Yeah, go fucking figure.

The ketamine had stopped working by then, and we struggled to get away from him. It was already three in the morning. He wouldn’t end the fucking conversation. My friend was trying really hard to brush him off, but every time he went “Listen, man. It was real nice meeting you and all, but I’ve got work tomorrow, and-”, he'd get interrupted with another fifteen-minute rant.

Anyway, we fucked off. For all we know, that junkie’s probably still awake.

I could’ve written more after I came home, but it was way, way, way too late. Besides I write like shit when I'm under the influence. [12:46]

[ . . . ]

I could’ve just stayed at home and jerked off last night.

Or I don’t know.

It’s all the same, really.

Shit gets old. Anybody I know will tell you that. But there’s gotta be a state of shit getting old where, I don’t know, that sits fine with you.

I keep trying to break away from mundanity, but it feels like a pointless pursuit. Between the weekday drinking, the jerking off, the studying, and what not, life feels a little like a drab ringtone on eternal repeat.

And never mind novel thrills, or how many of those there are left to discover. I don't think I'll ever get to try pussy. And even if I had the money for travel, it wouldn’t feel like a reinvention of myself. At least that’s what people tell me it feels like.

What reinvention?

People like to think of themselves as malleable lumps of clay they can impose their will on and sculpt into pretty designs.

I prefer to think of myself as a rock in a shoe.

Life’s just effort after effort to get away from thoughts of oneself. To evade the agony of self-awareness. Sometimes I fail miserably, and I’m forced to ponder the state of my existence, the things I’ve done wrong, the chances I could’ve taken, the life I could've lived, the person I could've been. The only times I willingly engage in introspection these days is when I write, and writing is in and of itself a form of distraction from earnest thinking. It's a neurotic's trick.

I don’t believe it’ll ever do me any good.

People never stop thinking about themselves. They say it’s to facilitate a change in self-perception, whenever that’ll fucking happen. [14:23]

[ . . . ]

My parents left the house. I'll masturbate. [17:43]

[ . . . ]

I didn’t masturbate. I didn’t have the energy.

I keep feeling tired, but I don’t think I am. Or, I don’t know. What the fuck? Isn’t tiredness supposed to be a feeling?

Somebody better kill me, quick. [19:08]

[ . . . ]

The comedown wasn’t so bad once I got some fresh air. Ketamine’s never really brought me down like that before. I’ve been a minute away from bludgeoning somebody ever since I woke up.

I watched two guys wrestle today. They’re old classmates. We were the autistic gamer clique back in middle school, but our paths sort of diverged in high school. There were five or six of us. Life gave us different headspaces, different environments, different attitudes.

They’re the brusque, manly types. They exercise, they grapple, they drive, they vote conservative. They’re religious, so they’re chaste, meaning they haven’t put their penises in any kind of pussy yet.

That would apply to me too, but I’m not exactly encumbered by religious convictions. Assuming that the guys are genuinely devout, and not abusing faith as a political signal.

They know I’m different from them. They’ll gladly single me out as the lanky, awkward, nihilistic, liberal, hipster faggot who thinks he’s too clever to wrestle around on the astroturf. They haven’t heard my thoughts on women, but suffice to say they know I’m an unabashed leftie. It’s only harmless banter when they tease me about it.

I self-deprecate. It cracks them up. I pretend to take pride in my skinniness. I tell them exercise is a complete and utter waste of time, that driving is for the self-important and impatient, and that they’d be a lot of happier sleeping in every day, day-drinking and sucking dick.

There’s nothing funny about wrestling, really. At least there hasn’t been since I was sixteen, and I got to watch my classmates roll around on the football field with their sweaty scrotums in each other’s faces. Everyone found that amusing.

The gay jokes are, uhm, dated, to say the least. I didn’t pull any this evening. If you went up to a wrestler and called him a faggot, you'd be on thin ice.

Mind you, I've never wrestled. Not once in my life. I was asked today if I wanted to try it out, and I refused.

There’s something to it, though. Something alloerotic.

I was sitting on the side, watching them. They’d start out on the ground most bouts. One, with his legs wrapped around the other. A typical leglock. Lips only a few centimeters away from each other, stomachs touching and eyes locked. The sort of sweaty, impolite interposition you only see in missionary porn. And wrestling, I guess.

While the atavists were having a blast pinning each other down, twisting legs and squeezing necks, I was standing over them with my cheesy, viridescent sunglasses, fantasizing about primates fighting over pussy.

It’s one thing to be terrible at a sport. It’s another to not even have the guts to play.

You wouldn’t wrestle your girlfriend, but you’d probably want her legs wrapped around you from time to time. It’s not really a matter of exemplifying brute force, so much as a fetching show of boldness.

If you’re too much of a pussy to bear the thud of her heels against your stiffened glutes, maybe you’re not cut out for coitus.

I'm like Hitler. If that girl on Hinge hadn't blown me off this morning, I wouldn't be on this shit platform creating another series of exquisite masterpieces. You’re welcome.

Fuck your vent post, and fuck what you’re sad about. You taint #vent with every post you make. It's enough of an affront that I have to waste calories scrolling past the verbal sewage you feel inclined to post every night, no matter how tiring or tedious a read. I shouldn't even have to see it on my screen. I could block you, but I'd rather just tell you to kill yourself so that you stop writing forever, and quit wasting the time of all these innocent people. Who don’t know your writing like I know it. Who don’t see it for what it’s truly worth.

Anybody can block me, but don't report me if your writing is shittier than mine. Which it probably is.

I want to be sensational. Like cockslinger.

If you don't want me producing these posts, find me a girlfriend. If not, go fuck yourself. [09:21]

[ . . . ]

I've always stood by this opinion.

If you're the kind of girl who hornyposts, baits guys into sending depraved messages, fishes for creepy compliments and demands from old men, and makes a dozen lewd posts every day, you are an infinitely better person than the prude, sex-averse, girlblogging bitch who whines about the boys in her class and bakes subliminal transphobia and misandry into her pink, glitter-turd shit blog. You're just a radfem without the reactionary ranting.

If you've ever posted “sex kinda scares me, ngl!🥺👉👈”, please kill yourself immediately and never reincarnate.

If you think heterosexual sex is fundamentally degrading and dehumanizing to women, you're a hypocrite, a retard, a religious fundamentalist, and basically just a fucking moron. It’s people like you who deter girls from fucking ugly shitskins like me. Purity culture doesn't automatically become good when it's a woman perpetuating it. [10:43]

[ . . . ]

I wrote a huge paragraph on pleasure and suffering, but it got deleted. I have Tumblr open on like twelve tabs, so I’m always losing text. [14:37]

[ . . . ]

It «is» summer. I could be out right now. Doing something. I don’t know.

Every summer’s different when you’re in high school. You’re sort of checking how late you can stay out every night.

Uhm, whatever.

I was in the inner city with a buddy of mine last night. I found an opened bottle of hard cider. It was, I don’t know, 65% full. It was sitting on a stone step.

It wasn’t anywhere dark, cramped or crowded. The stairs went down to the beach.

I drank it. Even though I’d already chugged five beers. Even though I could’ve gotten herpes. It tasted alright. No, actually, it tasted really good.

I used to do that a lot when I was, like, 17. Then I stopped doing it, because I didn’t have to, y’know.

I might go to the park tonight. Shit, I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll hit up a friend. [16:01]

[ . . . ]

I haven’t had a solo drink in a while. I don’t mind the double hangover.

I might buy something fucking grim today. There’s this one beer that’s like 10% proof. It tastes like burnt cockroach. It’s basically the cheapest shit they have at the liquor store.

It’s what I «should» be drinking, since student grants aren’t rolling in until fall. I think it’s about time I manned up and saved a little money.

My headphones aren’t charged, though.

So, uh. [17:42]

[ . . . ]

Nevermind. [18:02]

[ . . . ]

Before my mind does go, and my ears explode. [18:22]

[ . . . ]

I’m back to wondering how much I really want to disclose here.

I think it’s a little narcissistic to fear that somebody would bother to connect all of the dots and figure out who you are. A stranger.

I’m not nervous because I think it’s likely, or anything. Nobody really gives a fuck who I am, and the odds of running into a cracked out radfem mental enough to stalk me are negligible. I’m nervous because, y’know, it’s a speedy ticket to social death. Just in theory. [19:05]

[ . . . ]

The ketamine’s worn off. I thought my heart was going to stop for a few minutes. I couldn’t stand up. My mind went foggy. Every muscle in my body went stiff. It felt like somebody had nailed me to the ground.

Everybody daydreams. Maybe they do it a little extra when they drink. I definitely do.

I do a lot of staring out into the distance when I’m tipsy. I don’t like to, because it makes me look like a major fucking jerkoff when I’m around friends.

I don’t think very mature thoughts. Not tonight, not yesterday, not tomorrow.

Most of it is just «fathoming» stuff. Like, «fathoming» the shortness of life. Or «fathoming» the value of love. And I’m just kind of sat there on, I don’t know, a rainy fucking afternon, with insights I can’t do much with, none of whom anybody at the table wants to hear about.

Out of billions of corner on the internet you somehow end up in my tiny one💁🏻‍♀️

This is a introductory post of mine 👀👉🏻👈🏻

Hello🐣,

let me introduce myself 🐰

I am a type of person who's convinced every tiny inconvenience deserves its own dramatic soundtrack🎻

You can call me Winter ❄ (not a season ofcourse) i decided to start writing blogs about my daily life of how I am surviving in this cruel and boring world without any dragons , magic or fairies! (Sigh)

This blogs will be basically from now on will be my digital diary✉️!

Where I will be sharing my monotonous days which i will probably forget , random cringy stories which embarrass me till now and always scold myself for " why the hell did I do that?!!" , overthinking thoughts which somehow endup with my questionable mindset , some serious deep late night thoughts which introducing me of my own different side of personality, my late night crying session over studies, my over reaction and exaggeration to everything! a review of series I am watching or obsessing over a new hobby🌻...

Some days you will find me trying to be productive, and on other day you will be see me laying on my bed doing nothing or maybe someday I will be fully focused on doing side quest of my life!⁉️

If you are looking for perfection, this isn't the place🙅🏻‍♀️...

I am not here to pretend life is perfect💫 I am here to share the messy, funny, comforting, and beautifully ordinary parts of it!🤗

And if you enjoy honest stories, cozy moments, a little chaos, and someone who is figuring life out in most dramatic way, one day at a time...

Grab a cup of tea (or coffee) or maybe juice idk🧋 get comfy, and welcome to my tiny world🐣!

Ok so current update of my life 💁🏻‍♀️:-

I have cleared 2 exam in these months so total till now I have cleared 4 exam of acca and 9 more to go😵...

I choosed performance management subject next(which is the toughest subject I heard) ... and idk why even i choose that subject😶‍🌫️...

But let's see I still have time... exam is in Sept so I guess I will work hard!🤕

Also I want to start writing again!! But didn't get the time (even if I did then my mood changed)😖