I'm doing a bunch of things to keep my eighty year old self alive lately. I also finally know that it really doesn't matter. I've had my shot at life and I fucked up.
So I'm physically healthy. So I'm sober. Big fucking deal.
It really doesn't mean anything anymore.
I'm just an old man now, sitting at my laptop in a room that keeps me alive. There's a kitchen out there with food I bought from Walmart, and had delivered. There's a bathroom down the hall. That's it, my life.
My mind is totally out of control. The guilt I feel from living for eighty years with nothing but sadness and disaster to show for it, weighs on me like a collapsed mountain around me.
But I won't give up living because of it. I deserve what I have now, and I accept it all. The only thing I have left to say is, I'm sorry and fuck it.
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