A la Emo

It's me again. Do any of you even care? Are any of you even reading this? I have just been sitting here slowly dying at my computer again, my moribund body barely summoning the willpower to get another cup of coffee. Same old weekday, I guess. The color of the text represents MY SOUL.

It's weird, sitting here in my little pod, while updating crap that nobody should ever care about. God, they're all just like drones waiting for rewards from the hive mother, who is really only keeping them around to eat them for afternoon tea. I'm the only one who knows the truth. We are all alone here. All the paralegals in their little offices, and the assistants at their little desks. Chained to the electronic pyre that we call Outlook. Pass me the torch. We're all pathetic, and sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who can tell. What's the point? I HAVE TO BLEED JUST TO KNOW I'M ALIVE.

Life is the same old crap as usual. I work in my little box, watching stupid sunbathers, who probably have never had to work a day in their lives. They're all so happy and blonde. I hate them. I used to wish that I was like them, but now I know so much about the world outside of my own selfish interests, and can't stomach the thought of living in that mindless void. Not when I've got a void of my own creation. A shell. God, I'm so alone in this dark, unfeeling, callous, sadistic, depraved world.

I wonder if they'd even notice if I didn't show up on Monday. Or if I just didn't talk for the whole day. Maybe on Mondays I can just subscribe to a code of silence. Like a monk. An apathy monk. One who will wound you with her contemptuous sneer. Of doom. Always, of doom. Nothing can be a promise, but eventual destruction. Oh, I need new clothes; I should go to American Apparel.

And now, a haiku to best express my inner anguish:

Always sturm und drang
Mindless agony swirling
constantly pained mind.

Excuse me, I have to go weep my torment away. Not that anyone cares.