Sex and food and stuff are great and all. But it sucks being enslaved by little pleasures. Spirit vs. flesh. Mind-body dualism. Blinded judgment.
It’s almost like philosophical-religious traditions instinctively distrust the fragile vessel that contains us.
Point is: I hate how my appetite for sleep makes me sleep through alarms and miss breakfast.
Eat healthy
Kill less animals
Sleep less
Drink more coffee
Spend more time with friends
Spend every spare second studying
Hate myself and my existence
Talk to mom more
Etc.
Someone should write an absurdist Novel about me and my postmodern glory
I would if I were any good at writing.
I just exercised
fucking
I am going to die now
I didn’t even do anything strenuous, just leg lifts and sit ups and arm shit
and now I want to puke and I’m having an asthma attack
this is going to be an uphill battle
I should go to the gym
Can’t even count the number of bad decisions I’ve made lately. I should just get to go live on some island where I don’t bother people with my existence and where I get to read and sleep all I want, really, that would help everyone. Kim can come too if she wants.
I make bad decisions.
I avoid good decisions.
I am aware of the dumbness of my moral activity.
It sucks a lot.
I don’t know how to do anything.
Except be dumb.
I wish more people would recognize that.
I cannot get over Achilles’ face in this painting. Holy shit.
He’s totally like: “Oh god, mom, put a fucking shirt on, I mean, what are you even doing? Can’t you see I’m busy lamenting the death of my boyfriend? Like I really need to see your tits at a time like this— YOU’RE SO EMBARRASSING MOM GAWD.”
And the rest of the Greeks are jazz-handsing in the background. They’re all ‘WOAH LOOK AT THAT TOTALLY WICKED SET OF TITS— I MEAN ARMOUR. WOAH’
