I had no idea what I was going to write about today. I was honestly going to look for a challenge to help me with a prompt but it seems the site itself has become my prompt. I'm being hyperbolic as usual right off the bat, but I've got something of a bone to pick and however many ridiculous cliches come out in this rant, so be it. Why in the world would you take a perfectly good site like this one and start charging fees? Why? I understand the desire to be able to do more for authors on this site and everyone likes making money (or more money), but now there are charges for things that used to be free. Why not keep everything that was free the same and come up with new perks that are actually worth the cost of what's being asked? An author that wants to promote a book? Check. A voracious reader that wants an endless supply of books to read? Check. Someone that just wants to use this site like a diary or general writing escape? Probably not gonna wanna pay for that. One of my favorites aspects of this site was entering into challenges, but nobody wants to pay $6/month to post them. There used to be tons of them to choose from. Guess how many there are now. Go ahead, guess! ONE! There is one challenge right now and it's really not all that creative. Where is the creativity!?! That's one of the things I love most about writing. Why does it always come down to money? I really didn't want to be all pissed off about anything else today. I wanted an outlet for stress, not another cause. Maybe I'll have to find another site or just go back to paper and pen. The disappointments of reality never cease.

Why am I fighting something that is going to happen naturally; that can't be stopped? What makes rushing the ending unnatural? Where did all these ridiculous rules come from that say I can't and why should I listen to them? Pain is everywhere. There is just the question of cause and transference. What is really left for me anyway? All the things I always thought were so important are all unattainable now and it only brings me pain whenever I get sucked down the rabbit hole of bullshit, American Dream, fantastical, fucking delusions. Everyone always wants what they can't have, but it's torture. What is worse than revolving your life around a concept that isn't real and can't become real for you, no matter what you do? You could argue that I should change my concept, that I should find an attainable goal instead. That's not very satisfying, and honestly if I'm dumping the weight of the entirety of my being onto a small insignificant achievement, I predict the collapse of the concept (or even several, if I was motivated enough to multiply my absurdly, masochistic baby steps). I'm not handling reality well. I'm not handling my existence well. I am my own worst enemy, and yet I am the only person I can never escape. I'm never going to allow myself to be happy, so why can't I just not be? I've been looking for a personalized and intellectual argument to this question for most of my life, and ironically, the society that insists upon the continuation of my pain and clear depression (among a longer list of issues) cannot seem to answer my query. This society that has become obsessed with everyone's opinions on everything being so vital, cannot even convince me of the reasoning. When did people stop telling ignorant assholes to shut up? When did the ignorant assholes stop feeling like their opinions were unwelcome unless they stopped being assholes? Why can't people understand and believe the truth of it all; that not everyone is going to give a shit about your opinion, and furthermore, most don't care. I get that everyone wants to feel loved and most people want to be liked, but when did the reality of "Not everybody gives a damn." go out the window? Why are we raising fucking narcissists? What kind of society does that? I mean, seriously, what the fuck?

The pain pulls me down

I writhe and I scream

The pain pulls me down

I am worse than I seem

I tremble and cry

Even knowing just why

The pain pulls me down

Tries to bury me, underground

I am lost to the sea

Of unpleasant memory

And the pain pulls me down

Back to that town

Where I lost all control

Where I lost my own soul

And there's nothing left

But feeling bereft

The emotions I experience

Are intense and delirious

I question my sanity

I question everything

The panic and shame

Race back with his name

And the pieces I see

Are all that's left of me

The pain pulls me down

Crimson staining my gown

The pain pulls me down

Now I'm underground

I don't know what's come over me. I've gone years without sex and been perfectly fine, but suddenly that seems to be all I can think about. I feel crazy. I feel obsessed. The guys at my work are young and attractive and do manual labor all day long.

I keep getting these urges, these impulses to do something with one of them. I fantasize about one of them losing control and kissing me in the middle of everyone. I imagine that he confesses to being in love with me and looks at me like no other man ever has. I try to be rational and tell him that he can't possibly love me because he doesn't even know me, but logic and reason go out the window when he kisses me. My blood boils so hot I know I'm going to lose control. I can't contain myself. It's been so long. All I want is to feel him; his toned abs and warm chest. I just want him to wrap his arms around me and lift me onto a railing and devour me with his mouth. I want him to use his teeth to unbutton my shirt and ride his hands up my shorts until he grabs my ass. I want to suck on his neck until my lips imprint on him. I want to bite and play and make him ache for me. I want him to feel like the thrust itself is a release and it's all he can do not to finish before he begins.

As the days pass and the fantasies become more intense, I'm left feeling alone and unsatisfied. I just need a warm, hard body. I just need some sweet release.

Dear Self,

While you're reading this letter, you're going to know that it is true. You've always known. You were convinced when you were young and nothing that happens to you until the age of 37 is going to change your mind. Nothing is going to get better. The realizations that you discover are both depressing and unchangeable. Your third year in college will be the easiest time, but whenever you have the impulse and conviction will work. You know what you have to do.

-Your future self

For Challenge- "Message to Your Past Self" by AnnFan14, due February 18.

Dear Self,

While you're reading this letter, you're going to know that it is true. You've always known. You were convinced when you were young and nothing that happens to you until the age of 37 is going to change your mind. Nothing is going to get better. The realizations that you discover are both depressing and unchangeable. Your third year in college will be the easiest time, but whenever you have the impulse and conviction will work. You know what you have to do.

-Your future self

For Challenge- "Message to Your Past Self" by AnnFan14, due February 18.

Of all the places in existence, I would like to explore Heaven. I want to see my loved ones again and know that they are happy. I want to be happy myself. I want to meet God and ask him all the questions of the universe and what my purpose was in life and would be in death. Most of all, I would like to know that I lived a good enough life, that I was a good enough person, so maybe what I really want to explore is my own soul.

Did we move on?

How would we know?

We're together,

Then we're alone.

The years that passed,

Dragged on and on.

They're incomplete,

And feel so wrong.

But then I think,

Of what I knew.

Converged to one,

When we were two.

I remember

Those awful fights,

Screaming, crying

All of those nights.

Depression came,

Happiness left.

When it ended,

I felt bereft.

I have freedom,

For what that's worth.

Disorders haunt,

My very girth.

But going back,

Is not a choice.

I can't return,

To silenced voice.

I must recall

My very soul,

Is not cut out

To take this toll.

Being alone

Is what we need.

Does not matter

How much we bleed.

We cannot ask

For more from man,

Than we're willing

To give a damn.

For truth conveys

Darkness within.

Life's not a game

To cheat, to win.

We don't deserve

Optimism.

We are full of

Narcissism.

Did we move on?

I do not know,

But we must face

The life we chose.

For Challenge- "Did we move on?" by funlynry due October 5th.

Sleep eludes me. It often does when I'm in this heightened emotional state. I can't stop thinking about all the things that went wrong in my life and all the choices I made that I shouldn't have. I can't stop playing the what-if game and losing. I can't stop the depression that overtakes my thoughts, like ink slowly turning the water of my mind black. At this point I no longer want to stop it. I welcome the darkness. Somehow it gives me what I need. It fills me with a purpose. Hating myself gives me purpose.

Where was I when you needed someone to talk to?

Where was I when you needed someone to be strong for you?

Where was I when you were in pain?

I was the one to blame.

Where was I when you needed support?

Where was I when you got that wart?

Where was I when you needed me?

I was nowhere you could see.

Where was I when you bought a house?

Why did I always make you kill the mouse?

Why did I ruin our love?

I took away the peace of a dove.

Where was I when you took care of our kits?

Where was I when they threw their fits?

Where was I when you cooked all the food?

I was too busy swinging my mood.

Where was I when you went to work?

I went off to be a jerk.

Where was I when you washed all the dishes?

I was taking advantage of all of my wishes.

Where was I when you were in pain?

I am the one to blame.