Prodigy's Life in Vague, Enigmatic, Slightly Confusing Terms

This diary does not (entirely) reflect my life, but perhaps my sole purpose of living: to have you leave more confused than you came in. Everything within is the truth, if you can manage to decipher it. Viel gluck, meine landeskunde.


41. Saturday, June 13th.

I despise myself for the following reason and that reason alone: my voice inside my head when I converse with myself is unbearably sarcastic. Like, everything I say to myself is dripping with sarcasm which, while hilarious at times, can come off as quite abrasive. I am generally unhelpful to myself as well, which is not particularly what I need after locking my keys in my car. Though I suppose it's fitting that I get a taste of my own medicine, since sarcasm is my second (or perhaps first) language normally. 


After fighting with a scalpel that that the audacity to be standing blade-up in a container of pencils, I angrily tried to brush the eraser shavings off of my computer's touch pad. All I succeeded in doing was convincing the computer that I was trying to execute some intensely complicated figure gesture, at the sight of which it panicked, frantically froze, and finally shut down. All my inanimate objects hate me.


"When you work your fingers to the bone,

and what does that get you? Nothing.

In a crowd of people, you're still alone,

you hope that tells you nothing.

The road to heaven is paved in hell

and it makes you wonder 

why we're here at all."


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