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Okay, so I feel like a phlebotomist and there's not a good reason why I used that word other than that it sounds good rolling off my fingertps, so I'm gonna have to bind it into some vague semblence of a clear metaphor: [here's trying]

Today was fruitless despite grandiose efforts in productivity. I took to many important causes I needed to address in the sort of form for legal paperwork and what not. I still have work to do tonight and the entirety of the day is rushing past at a speed uncomfortable and unfamiliar. I hate the days like this. And here's where the mic drop lends reverb to the metaphor: [or the sad attempt there is]

Today everytime I set out to collect what needed to be done and had done so correctly, I took to what needed to be addressed, and in my hands I saw the swirling red glow of optimism contained in a plastic vial. I had collected my world into multiple tiny ominous tubes of source. The consciousness contained in glistening lies I had attained something uniquely entitled to a personal design that could create answers and pathways to new studies; new life, I repeatedly had to set them down in a stupid flerfing case and relieve them in a cooler for a later date, because I could not complete a dang dern diddly squatting one of their irritating, asses.

Every single time I was almost done w something there was some stupid hang up that had nothing to do w me doing anything wrong and everything to do with congress passing weird bills, or someone outside of myself having to approve of papers before they could be sent out. So everything on my end is done. But at the same time everything is sitting, dry-heaving, in an ice cube corner.

Does any of this make sense? Who furding knows.
Can I swear on these journal entries? I didn't see that anywhere but I want to.

I am annoyed. But it also feels nice to settle some of the lipids while I fume in darkness waiting for the ethereal night to engulf me and calm my anxious identity.

I don't really have any particular meaning behind my words tonight, at least none that I can know. That's a common theme w me though, the not knowing. I don't know most things and I wish more people would accept that reality about themselves.

The night is so flarping pale much like the soul I'm pathetically bound to. This land is a netherworld of abysmal personalities and mine is not excused in that assessment. I am this erfing close to ripping out my own hair, and that's a shame seeing as it's perfectly teased and I've just dyed it the night prior.

I talk like I'm in some idiot's fatal fantasy of a manic pixie nightmare, and I'm sorry for the fact that's possibly true of me. There is something painstakingly obvious underneath the all of us. I am unaware of the details, but this I know is. Is? Is what? A greater ploy for a pathetically charged attempt at an off-beguiling, fragmented sentence? Will it reflect the sentence I am shackled to? Is it even a play on words, or just a play on me and this torrid inner dialogue I can't quiet seem to squash?

Flarp me now I want squash. The strawberry kind that slithers down the back of your throat and fills your gut with empty, artificial calories.

I am an artificial calorie.
Consume me and I provide no sustenance.
Only empty forking words.