I wanted to write a book, but my motivation has remained hidden somewhere never to surface. After I graduated from college, I left Baton Rouge to travel to a new city, but I guess I left my motivation at BR: I have no other reason why I have freaking zero incentive to move forward. When the SpaceCops come to our planet for investigating alien invasions, send them over to me. Perhaps there are some dark matter micro-aliens in my brain harnessing their fuel from my motivation. Otherwise, I would have already discovered something or someone to fuck with.

In this new city that I live, I have no friends, no apartment, no money, and above all, no fucking clue about what to do. My days are filled with chess games where other people fuck me most of the time. I recently gave an interview for a job for which I thought I was qualified. They gave me a nice blowjob before a heartfelt fuck. They even asked me to reapply after six months, as if they enjoyed the first session and waiting for a few more. I bet they did because I gave them some of my motivation as well. I spent everything single penny I had by traveling through the rotten country of fucking India before the racist Central USA, and now my finances are saying to myself: “Ah, did you have a nice vacation? Allow me to fuck you now”. My dad texts me and my mom texts me asking for updates and I tell them to wait for a few days, basically a shitty way of saying “I have no fucking clue.” My last girlfriend ditched me: I fell in love with her but she fell in love with another. I guess she was fucked, literally and metaphorically, and so was I, although only metaphorically. I tried to discover myself through meditation believing that it to be the only thing that wouldn’t fuck me, and then I realized that even it depended on my willpower, which fuck does not exist. I am a pile full of shit. I guess all logic leads me to wait until the Space Cops arrive. I’m ready to leave the Inferno.

Who the fuck cares about me. I am depressed. I don’t fucking know anything. I don’t know who I am. I am basically dying and dead at the same time. More dead and less dying.

So I tell to motivation, my friend: fuck you. I don’t fucking care about you. I’ll do what I do till I can not do what I do. And when that point of time comes up, I want to ask you to make certain that either you will fucking kill me; or otherwise, I will fucking kill myself. Of course, I might stand on my fucking feet but what good will it do if I still hate everything about this world. Food for thought. Now to you, reader, get back to your pile of fucking shit and fix your fucking life before it is fucking too late.