Today

My notebook got wet and now I hate it.
It's unfortunate.
I indulge myself by staring at it and frowning.
...

Death stands next to you and asks "who are you?" repeatedly
I would like to smoke myself to death
feeling it out, one breath at a time, each one getting longer and slower and greyer and softer
I would like to spend a long time dying

I am possibly sad because I have no relatives.
...

The frontal lobe reaches maturity at the age of 25. I'm excited. Horray for myelin!