I just feel like writing. What about? Fuck knows... Everything. Nothing. What the fuck does it matter anyway? I just need to do something. I can't fuckin' deal with this shit. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!!!?
Fuckit, it's friday. I'll go and spend time with my friends. Have a few laughs and a few drinks. It's a beautiful thing. Well... Almost.
I feel like punching fuck out of someone. Him over there. No, not him, the other guy. Battering him would be bullying, the other guy would fight back. Would likely kick fuck out of me in all honesty. Maybe that's what I want. No, it's not. I want to punch fuck out of him. I want his face to be like a fuckin' car crash victim when I'm finished with him.
Nahhh....I don't mean that. Why do I think these things? Am I thinking them because I know the people who will read it if I write it? Have I started writing for them? Why am I writing in any case? Who gives a fuck... I am. So fuckit.
Fuckin' hell. We have 53 minutes to go. I've done fuck all today. Stealing money. It's not fucking on. It just means someone will have to pick up the slack. I'll need to catch up over the weekend. Otherwise I'm a cunt. Or...at least, more of a cunt.
I feel fuckin' *shite*, fuckin terribly shite, no worse than that. I've spoke to none of these cunts today. Fuck 'em. I don't give a fuck about them. I'm not here to make mates. I've got mates. Fuck these cunts. This guy over there, he's a fuckin' horrible cunt. Yet look at him, happy as fuck. Got a good looking wife, few kids, nice house, nice car... The good life. And look at me. A fuckin' train wreck. What the fuck did I do that was so bad?
Fuckin.....Fuckit...
I want to go back home. More than ever. I want someone to make it all better. Fuckit...Grow up you stupid cunt.
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