Stale beer

Stale beer. That’s a good description of me. I look around my room and wonder what I have become. A character in one of my old dreams maybe. Nothing is tangible. I’ve read books and watched movies and had relationships. Something isn’t working. I’m getting chest pains. All of my favorite writers are dead. All of my close friends are far away. The only thing that is real is the smell of stale beer. I might become an alcoholic just to survive my personal boredom. I’ve spent hours, actually years trying to figure out life and love and death. I haven’t gotten anywhere. I don’t mean that to sound grand or anything. It should sound bitter. I haven’t gotten anywhere. I pick songs to download illegally that I think would make me look cool, but there is no one here to look cool in front of. I create a false image of myself for myself. I’ve lost who I really am. Am I funny or serious? Am I romantic or disconnected? Violent or pacifist? Look at these fucking words I’m using. I wonder if my former eighteen year old self walked through my door right now I bet he’d kick my ass. Am I becoming everything I hate? Some stuck up pretend writer who is going no where in life and just sucking the resources out of everyone he comes in contact with. I like to think I’m pulling off some great scam the only deterrent is this fucking room I sit in. Every fucking night. Stale beer. The feeling of waking up and knocking empty beer cans off your desk not remembering what you’ve written the night before. That’s living. I am in an airtight bubble, I just don’t know if it’s sinking or rising. I like to hope it’s rising, but that’s not my style. I constantly bite my fingernails, but they keep growing back. Will I have to deal with this for my whole life? How many nails must I bight off before it all ends? I’m secretly worried my hair might start falling out and then I’d really be in a bind to find a girl. I have nothing to offer the opposite sex. No money, no apartment, no car, no future. Stale beer.