ape $hit...

Over the years, it gets harder and harder to pretend that you care. Or just harder to let it show. I laugh or cry at the drop of a hat, but I wonder if anything really reaches my heart anymore at all. How can I be so jaded already? It all feels so forced sometimes. So unreal. I don't even trust my own senses half the time. No one has been able to prove to me that I'm not making all this up in my head. Reality I mean. Maybe that's why I write so freely. Your all theoretical to me, figments of my imagination. But I'm driving the car with blinders on, and sometimes the effort of interacting seems more than I can handle. If my dream car got better than 7 to the gall I'd drive off into the sunset. But it doesn't , so I won't. But what do I do with 20 hours a day and all these hallucinogens? All I can do is write. And stare at the ceiling. And keep telling myself that quiting would mean I really am crazy...