It went away, that feeling in the darkest region of my stomach. I can't find the good in people anymore. I used to be one of those people who walk around with a halo made of silver permanently affixed to my skull. Those days are long past now, I haven't left my apartment in two weeks. I haven't seen natural light in more than a month. Come to think of it, I haven't really seen myself in over a year. Which is pretty sad to think about. The mirror in my bathroom shattered (well, actually, I shattered it in one of my manic sessions) the shards still litter the sink basin and floor. I don't go in there without shoes.
The last social event I can remember was the coffee shop reading. A stereotypical marathon of burnt coffee smell and over-priced entertainment. I was on the bill though, reading from my latest memoir. A 673 page piece of filth, self indulgent shit. Some critics compared it to a "sunny self help manual"... Like I said shit. That's when the whole life is beautiful thing was providing a steady cash flow.
The money didn't really go to anything productive; rent, smokes, and a large supply of double malt scotch. I'm down to my last bottle. I'm scared that I will be forced to return into the world to replenish my habit... My disease.
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