I don’t want to go home, and I don’t want to stay here. I want the world to stop, I want to quit my job, I don’t want to get old. I figure eventually I won’t care, I really won’t care, if I die. And that’s when I will. When dying isn’t so much an avoidance of what I don’t want to do, but just whatever, who cares what happens. If I die, I die.
I wonder what the fuck is going to happen to me when I get old. My Grandmother was like that. What happens when your memory fades and you can’t remember what you were were hiding from, and what you were hiding from yourself. Was it a real fear, or something you just made up? Either way it is so scary finding out – either you find out that it was real, and now you have regrets, or that it never was, and now there are so many more regrets.