I don’t know what to do.

Those words now cover my life like a terrible, terrifying tarpaulin of boundless bleurgh.

Everything’s wrong, broken, unfixable, undefinable, unbelievable, and…um…other words ending in “un”.

(Infinite un’s. Un’s multiplied by infinity. Jinx, no comebacks, you lose…as does me.)

I don’t know what to do.

What do I do?

Do I get a job I’ll hate, to get money I can’t spend on things I won’t want several years from now?
Do I go back-packing through countries where everything will invariably try to kill me?
Do I write a book about something, knowing that nothing I say will be of any interest to anyone, and that every word I will ever write – and every idea and every thought that will ever pass through my mind – will have been thought up innumerable times before I thought those thoughts?

I’m nothing to anyone, and everything to no one.

My abyss doesn’t stare back, also.

Misery is my bedfellow, and sorrow my drinking buddy.

Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot…