everything within the reach of my arm. everything I do during the day and at night. everything I eat. every substantial chunk of my time.
I'm not really alive. I'm in a rut, and if I don't break out, I'll die this way, bland and unremembered. something in me... recoils at the thought. my soul, maybe.
Good luck, duckies. May you all wake up in bed with someone beautiful and missing at least two more appendages than you'd thought the night before.
I'm actually doing the opposite. I've spent my entire life shedding bullshit and taking flight. This is the first year I've ever tried to create something out of my surroundings and it's going well.
my post is apparently the victim of a one-time fluke causing Ted's comment to show up on the main page. my dissociation from reality is so profound it has communicated itself through the intertubes and fucked with the very fabric of Whitechapel itself. the mind reegles.
yes. I am The One. and if 500 Agent Smiths come flying at me, instead of fighting them all I will remember "Oh yeah, I'm The One," and fucking disintegrate them all, thus sparing the viewing public two nonsensical sequels.