Surreality in the Dumps

I’m completely numb inside. My words in previous entries delivered a fervor I can’t maintain any longer—a passion too burdensome to bear.

There is a player of the week. This is how I got on the subject of passion. My previous entries suggested an emotional connection to the player—no matter how lame he was, or at least his case delivered a slight hint of yearning. 

I used to care about these guys as people….no. That was never the case. They were always ideals and remain so.

Indeed, I fall in love with ideas all the time, and this time it’s the most mediocre of all ideas: a heroin addict bearing my father’s name.

I mean, growing up? Making good decisions? Me? Why bother? 

I used to write about precedence a lot. It’s different now. I continue to prioritize men, but now they occupy the slot of ‘he who will break your heart’ instead of its former ‘there might be hope with this one’. 

Today’s melancholy can be explained through boredom, unknowing, fear, and idleness. I used to have so much hope. For his call (the royal his) (royalty in my world changes on a weekly basis), and now I just hope to be let down easy from the inevitable heartbreaker who's probably tying off in the back of his car right now. Just kidding, he doesn't have a car. They never do.