The Ambivalent Prince.

So, I’ve had this diary for a few weeks now and I have to say, it’s on my mind that you don’t really know anything about me, you probably just look at this page and think "Wow, here’s a guy with excellent taste in diary layouts [Thank You, I do}, is obviously extremely handsome [Thank you, I am] and is plainly capable of [Thank You, I can] seeing into the future.

But what you don’t know is: Anything about me whatsoever.

Well, here’s the thing. I’m a bit self-obsessed. No. Scratch that. I am FUCKING DROWNING IN MYSELF.

It only makes sense because after 28 years on this Earth, I have yet to hear even one convincing argument that convinces me that any of you people I hear about so much actually exist in any sort of capacity beyond dynamic zombiehood. This is mostly because I, as the only solidly conscious person in the world understand zombiehood. I know what emptiness feels like. I understand mental absence. For fuck’s sake, the only reason I give you the benefit of the doubt/mind at all is because of a forgotten argument that I lost when I was too young to fucking understand what was at stake. And habit. Don’t forget habit.

So, anyway, like so many self obsessed people I have a thing that I see as being the most self-definitive aspect of my personality, something that sets me apart. I have no fucking idea what that is, other than I know I’ve got a mind and you might not, but I know that the words that the world has given me to describe the inside of me are as fucking useful as a jigsaw puzzle when you don’t know what the fuck the picture is and the pieces are made out of a flavour of jelly that makes you scared of death.

So, what the fuck am I talking about?

I am bored. And I’ve always had a tendency when I’m bored to cannibalise my own brain. And that means I start with the parts most that are most accessible. The ego. The secrets I try to ignore. The everyday people that bore the fuck out of me. You, the illusory non-fucking less than existing internet asshole with your spastic attention span and knowledge that you’re eternally three clicks away from seeing people fucking. I wasn’t sure when I took this diary up what I wanted to write about. Day to day events? Thoughts and points of view? When I got my first period? The girl who didn’t call or the drugs that didn’t work? Fuck that.

In my head, I suppose I wanted to recapture the kind of regular writing habit I used to have when I wrote here as a teenager. I didn’t really give a shit about what I was going to write, I just wanted to be capable of being compelled to write, rather than being in a continous state of fucking empty self fucking hatred, continuously self-berating as I spend my days counting the ways in which I am gradually and fucking unremarkably becoming old and dead. My old diary was a collection of hot thoughts, of rants either for or against an idea, espousing a certain vigourous self-confidence that I felt permeated all of the realisations that slithered through my brain, the direct and unabashed certainty of youthful context. This one will most likely be the catalogue of how the last one was bollocks.

So, again, what the fuck am I talking about?

Fucked if I know. You know nothing about me because you know what? I’m not sure if you even have the capacity to have any kind of real knowledge. Or, and more likely, because I have no ability to tell you, or care either fucking way.