OHHH MY GAAAAAAAAAAAAAD. I am in the brink of starting another chapter of my LIFE, can you EFFING BELIEVE??! Can you believe that I even have a life??XD

I want to DIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEE.

But apparently I want to die for a cause, say, to offer my life to, err, a shiny pumpkin exalted on an ornate pedestal.XP

Waaaaaaahhh.

This must be bad. I have been contemplating on my suicide yesternight and the previous nights before that.XP Suicide! WHAT! Yes, I must be suicidal. But I'm not YELLING to everybody that I shall be killing myself (though blogging is one way of yelling that to the world) in the near future because I don't really need attention and I am not mulling over another suicide attempt just to gain sympathy from other people--I don't need sympathy you fucking pederasts. This chronic thoughts of suicide are wired in my brain.XP YEAH. I am not responsible for it, mind you. So, shall I ever annihilate myself from this cruel world, it is because I have a mental illness, which is generated from my inability to acknowledge my lack of usefulness and purpose for the world.XP Life, I surmise, is given to us for the betterment of the future; the whole world is an accumulative achievement of all peoples in our entire earthlife history. Be your purpose is for copulation (producing more copies of your stupid self), improvement of the society, advancement in the history of ideas, or what have you, it all boils down to the survival of us humans as a species. Human history is but an evanescent firefly in relation to the lifespan of the stars, the planets, galaxies, and other astral bodies floating unnoticed around us. And this tiny morsel of a life interspersed inside our egos is just like that of a lone ant roving on a vast wall of uncertainty.

The meaning of your life does not rely on your accumulation of material wealth. It's not just about having a house to store all your stuff while you go out to get more stuff. Rather, it is about, err, the idea just escaped me.XP I'm afraid my fingers have tuned out typing in the brain-speed associated with the neurotransmitters connecting my fingertips to my prefrontal cortex. The same thing happened when writing with a pen. After a year of not even lifting a pen, my scribbling reflexes went back to kindergarten. And now that I am rewiring my thoughts with my fingers, there will always be a time when my thoughts have lapsed and my fingers have yet to type them thoughts but are not able to because they have no memory of their own or they lack the agility to tap the keys in congruence to the speed of my thoughts. Nevertheless, I shall have to burst all the veins turgid on my forehead to recall just what I was inaniloquently talking about. Yes, the meaning of life.

The meaning of life begins when you stop thinking about the meaning of life and start making one for yourself. Stop blogging you gleeking wallydrag.

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