The anticipation of death is far worse than death itself

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Memory lane is a shitty dirt road in Siberia
bombcat
it's three in the morning, which is way past my old cunt bedtime, even though it's a friday. i've just spent a coupla hours reading through old entries of mine, reminiscing and cackling like a right fucking moron. fuck, i used to be a funny cunt a little bit, ay. let's compare and constrast: i used to be a funny cunt, and now i'm a boring old cunt who writes boring shit. i no longer have anything interesting to offer this shithouse mega-blog called livejournal.

it is indeed the bitter truth, my droogies - gone are my witty quips and mega-funny descriptions of crazy outings with all manner of huge cuntfaces. i no longer go out drinking all the time; i don't play drums; i don't rap (although i did make some beats earlier this year, using good old Loops); i don't go to gigs; i don't blow in your mum's face nearly as much as i used to; i listen to shithouse deathcore, woeful ball-shrivelling blackgaze and amazing dark ambient (thanks, Cryo Chamber), and still love the Bizkit; i read about existentialism and nihilism.

song stuck in head: that titanic song. no, freal, it goes a lil sumn lyk -

where are you nooooooow, titanic
under the seaaaaaaaa
under the seeeeeee-eeee.

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