Emptiness is killing me. Hits my face like the moon crashes the sun. Make a lonely ton of pain. So I gotta run, pick up my shotgun, and shoot everyone I hate to, intimidate everyone I love to, and knock everyone I don't want to. Ask them to end this show. Eeeny, meeny, miny, moe... . Fuck life. Fuck liars around me. Fuck noise. Fuck love.
All I need is some happiness. So I could stop to write this fucking words and fucking use it in everyfuckingwhere in this fucking sentence.
I hate when people say I am not happy. For me, happiness is a thing secretly combined with thousands of unfulfilled expectations. Unfilled, not yet. And I'm sure one day will be reached before the day that I die.
Or should I ask my parents to kill me now? They'd be glad to.
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Man is fond of counting his troubles, but he does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he ought to, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it.
We tend to forget that happiness doesn't come as a result of getting something we don't have, but rather of recognizing and appreciating what we do have.
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