People want life to make too much sense.
I watch movies all the time and hate the fuck out of them because they’re too orderly.
They follow this strict plot line where on thing clearly leads to another in a compact amount of time and everybody’s cool with it.
I get it, kind of—it’s easier to sell a movie that makes life seem so much more reasonable than it actually is.
But it’s still fucking fiction. Like wtf.
No, the days I spent a depressed sack of shit in bed didn’t lead up to me building this unfounded, amazing resilience to endure the lasting struggles in life.
I was just a worthless member of society too tired to stand, to eat, to think, and too numb to cry. That’s it.
The handsome man I ignored in the street didn’t later become the love of my life who is both quirky and sexy enough to steal my heart and gallivant across the world with me until we perish in a freak free diving accident involving giant squids and lack of oxygen.
The shit that pours out of my mouth 99% of the time isn’t supposed to, and I highly doubt my words will serve to inspire masses of people to change for the better.
This shit don’t make sense.
I don’t want it to.