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joy division plus singular = bad writing

I think I am allergic to life. I heard there were some shots for it. I just don' t like that whole love and loss side effect. Its so great to have a secret online journal that noone knows about but myself and a world of anonymous strangers. So I am going to bitch. Ok. Not really. Ive bitched for so long time im tired of it. If I wanted to feel sorry for myself I'd sit around listening to joy division. Oh wait, I am. Ut oh. Yes, that is part of the problem. Ha. Ok. back to the story. I missed something. I wanted to be happy with what I did in life. I kinda am. I just feel like theres something missing. Its not a relationship, or a family, or a car, or a possession, and maybe it is a soul, a spiritual connection with something bigger than myself. I hate feeling so empty. I think the problem is that I used to believe, in a very naive way, in people. People let me down hard. I forgive them for their weak conditions. I just feel like all the things that used to make me happy mean nothing. I give all day at my job. I give give give give, and thats hard to do. I have gotten in a habit of accepting things for the way they are. Here is what I really want to do. To be perfectly honest. I want to find my ex. the worst of all of them. The poisonous evil one. I want to take him to Tennesee with me. What will we do there. Nothing. We will fail miserably at life. Id rather fail with him than fail alone. Ok. maybe not. Hes an emotional vampire and I am a unconditional forgiver which is a truely terrible combination. Lets say that nothing could possibly go wrong. That the world was perfect. We'd go out there and sing on the weekends in smokey shady honkey tonks, then during the week Id make art like I really want to, and Id be able to concentrate, and Id have a house with nothing in it but a fridge with organic foods that never expired. All are friends and family could teleport to see us, so we wouldnt technically have to leave anyone. Now that I really think about it, I date mommas boys, no wonder I cant get anyone to move more than a damn block from thier families house. Thats a sidenote, back to fantasy island. Id get hired as a patsy cline impersonator and then get to tour the US and japan as a rockabilly superstar. Id be on japanese teeshirts, and my ex would be a famous tattoo artist and whenever I wanted his tattoos to go away theyd wash off in the shower and then reappear after we had serious appointments with government officials and the like, because I would be an ambassador to a small impovershed african country just like Angelina Jolie who is me in pretty actress form. We'd have kids, and I wouldnt have to birth them I'd actually find one under my pillow one morning after great mind blowing tantric sex and I'd put them in the tub and they would grow into 18 year olds in one day. Excellent. Grow your own offspring in one day. So parenthood would ensure that someone other than african ofphans would take care of me in my old age. My elder years would be spent in day spas with my ex, we'd get to bitch about our dentures and scare children with our flappy nasty decrepid faces in our later years. We wouldnt technically die, we would one day get in a random cab that would take us to the sky like at the end of sid and nancy. Then when we got to the afterlife we would find out that god was actually an electronic device named igod with excellent music broadcasting to the subconscious of all of mankind, so all song, and imagery originated in heaven, and that is why the arts are superior to all of mankinds discoveries. It would turn out that artists and musicians were not lazy but closer to god than all of the selfish workers. OK so maybe that part is a stretch, but what is life without dreams.