From the moment I was born, I was born into debt. I shattered my mother’s body and her spirit, and left a beautiful woman a broken and ultimately embittered spectre. My whole life I’ve tried to resign myself to this fact, and shift the blame onto factors beyond my control. “I never chose to be born” (such an awful appellation wouldn’t you agree) is a common one, but the more and more I think of it I was the herald of suffering. 

Now I’m just writing it all out in space, attempting to reconcile the fact that I was an awful son, a bratty child and a fucking unhelpful part of my family unit. I always resented the fact that I was the cause of my mother’s suffering, her degrading health and her pride brought so low. And as much as a host of blathering, bleeding heart liberal enablers continue to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, it was very definitely all my fault. I’ve watched as my mother’s beauty as faded away and she has transferred malice for such de-ravelling threads to my poor father, who I in turn very ironically attempted to protect by being an absolute and utter cunt. 

I look at all I’ve achieved in my life, and I realise it meant nothing. The meaningless academic excellence, the cultivation of unique personal style, the construction of a carefully manic public personality…none of these mean anything because I can’t right the wrongs of my birth (not even by inflicting violent self-murder)…to this day I’m still that tiny mewling child who looks up at the horrid toll his birth took on his family, realising that its too late to do anything. 

What a goddamn mess…