Dungeons of my machinations.

The third day of the year.

Curious, I wonder why the government system makes children born on this day miss a school year. Oddities aside, I miss school and of not having to make the choices in your life. And then speaking of which, I'll be meeting up with some ex-classmates. Can't say I look forward to this. What with the sudden re-emergence of a hermit.

"I'm just artificial flavouring, no pretenses about that."

Oh, the irony of having said that. Oxymoron. Huh.

If truths be told, I can't pretend about myself. No use being nice, when I am not. Niceness isn't a strength, and in any case, it is always a backfiring compromise to the wickedness of all that is. Yes, everything is fucked up.

Like the trappings of mortal existence and why exactly do we have sentience? What kind of sick joke is evolution? And why don't brains have pain receptors. Would have been so much easier, then I wouldn't have to think so much. Brians taste awful, so I must be a zombie to like one. Thank God I don't ever ingest pig's brains or pigs named Brian.

...

Why have I been imprisoned in the cells of my own imaginings for so long? The mastery of a storyteller's weavings, a dungeonmaster. Perhaps for twenty-four months the bonds of denial are manifesting themselves as self-detrimental somethings. Where exactly did all this come from, and where will it go?

What the fuck is all this shit?