Thank you Thought Catalog for giving this to the world. Indeed, an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewriters for the rest of eternity will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. This is a little more plausible.
In recent news I have been feeling Pretty Fucking Miserable: classes this semester have been a step backward in terms of my Excitement at the Prospect of Higher Education and I am still in the process of deciding if this is the consequence of making particular decisions about undergraduate life (and living on campus, and enrolling in a programme I feel very lukewarm about, and feeling increasingly out of touch with my sources of vicarious living overseas), or a natural and organic regression into jadedness (how I loathe that word) and boredom.
And contort wildly on a stage and then die and then be cremated and let my ashes be consumed by a thousand autistic ravens. Because this is probably the only sensible way to call attention to the complete and utter lack it in the world and its madness, and I am pained by the realisation that I can come to this understanding with the limitations that accompany my own narrow and suspect subjectivity — what of the nett (as it were) madness that sheathes the entire world of sorrow in every moment and memory?
And I'm not competent enough to derive an understanding of the matrix of events that situates me in my feeble constructs of space and time. I synthesise these two points of insecurity and perhaps wrap my textbooks in them like the cheap plastic wrap my mother used to buy from Popular. I don't know what protects me; I only care that it does, and that it remains easily disposable.
Anyway, the main agents of my extreme annoyance may or may not bother reading this, but here's some universal advice: if you keep using your insecurity as an excuse to get what you think you want, you're only going to be left vaguely unsettled with what you think you have.
