I am not well, and haven’t been for a long time.

The only reason I’m writing this is because there’s a number on an app on my phone that tells me there’s an occasional reader of this nonsense. An app in the rotation of apps that I’m addicted to checking.

I knew from the beginning, it’s all built on what others think of me. This app, Facebook,  Instagram, whatever-tha-fuck, have a pavlovian power over me. But the audio/visual triggered response of our brain isn’t where it stops. We all know this. This isn’t why I’m fucked up. And the past doesn’t fucking matter, so, fuck it.

My youth was stranger than most. Causing my adolescence to follow the same strange road, all the way to an adulthood that has me living in a performative state of mind where I subtly take my insecurities and anger out on those around me. That, of course, sounds like an excuse for being an absolute prick. It might be. And that is what I am. My ego is out of control. The power to change this has been within me the whole time. The reason I chose to ignore it during my twenties is because it gave me inspiration. The ego drove my so-called “creative process”, or so I thought.

The older I got, the more I isolated and closed my eyes to the outside world. Believing I had all the answers, I stayed in that mindset. My point of reference became disconnected from the level of reality everyone else around is operating on. A stunted, borderline autistic mindset consumes every waking moment like a parasite feasting on my perceptions and shitting out the nastiest, most paranoid and cynical analysis of my surroundings.

The algorithm assists in solidifying this outlook. Helping the parasite embed itself deeper in my mind. Lust, pessimism, and irrationality, have crept little by little throughout every connection in my brain. My impetuous ego seems to have been a double edged sword. Believing I saw some underlying truth in society and that my words had the power to change it kept me looking at the world as if I was somehow not a part of it.

Believing my work was this important became an illness. It distorted my priorities to the point where relationships were not important. I only reached out when I needed something. I ignored people who needed me to be present in their lives, my children, for example.

Romantic relationships became impossible. Everything and everyone in my life had to bend to the whims of my mindset and creative process. Only my feelings matter. Everyone else is acting out of some irrational subconscious drive that I had already diagnosed in my mind through key words in their verbal attacks or responses.

How did I let this get so out-of-hand? Psychological neglect, maybe. Addiction, definitely. Mostly, I think it was the only way I could delude myself into believing I was special. Delusions of grandeur, they call it. And as the years passed, I held onto the delusion, it became a foundational piece of my psyche. As my circumstances changed, my priorities never did. Infantilizing my maturity, believing nothing was as important as me and what I was trying to do.

My search for answers to questions that shouldn’t really matter became everything. I should have been searching for love, for friendship; for ways to make memories with my family; for ways to become a better father, or a better person.

That’s why I’m not doing this shit anymore. I’m getting a fucking flip phone and staying off of screens smaller than 24 inches. I’m not committing suicide, not becoming a recluse, or “going postal”. I am simply done with storing and giving so much stock to the bullshit on this little screen. It’s time for me to change. A significant change. And the one thing that I have done consistently since graduating high-school is think that my phone holds all the keys to personal connections, success, pussy, fame, knowledge, and entertainment.

So, I’m done. I’m outro, my friends. Catch you on the flipside.

Peace.