So here I am. I throw my life to strangers with pure honesty because I know no other way. I wish my life could be be better but owning up to my own mistsakes won’t allow better things to happen. This is isn’t pity; it is the realization of a life, guilded, but wasted. I avoid Hemingway because he had so much more of a life before consindering my constant thought. I need a reason. I need a goal. In my sheer arrogance I can’t find it… I have the opposite means… clean and quick… But as it stands I am still content being miserable, being human… being alive.