Portents of Possibility

… Are non-existent when you wake up to the horrors of possibly being schizophrenic. I’m not saying that I want to be as well-adjusted as a car’s brakes after a trip to Manny, Moe, and Jack’s. I’m saying I want to wake up one day and wonder why I’m being served breakfast in my room when I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself. Yes, It’s Sunday. Yes, Mom usually does that on Sunday. But I doubt to see the cause of it if we’re all eating in our rooms like a good little dysfunctional tribe.

*brikd for the negative start*

Sketches… meh…

Not really enthusiastic about anything at the moment, what with scaring myself with delusions of poisoned food and feigned love and all. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever felt a real emotion since kindergarten. Not one that I didn’t feel bad about almost immediately after.


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