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I hate that I’m so bitter. I’ve never felt this way before. Everyone is to blame. It’s the world’s fault. Our society is inhuman. America damaged me. God damn it!
That’s all escapist nonsense, of course. I don’t want to face my family, they scare me, so I take it out on the world. Isn’t that mature? I know. It’s really fucking childish.
That’s my dilemma. I know how I’m feeling is immature, yet I’m powerless to stop it. I feel threatened. I feel dismissed. I feel abandoned. I feel like the whole world is against me. I feel like everyone is out to hurt me. I feel paralyzed and paranoid. I hate it.
I could have been a better person, but people fucking ruined me. My mediocre family ruined me with their ignorance and violence. That really pisses me off. I’m sorry. I’m just a generally bitter person, unfortunately. That’s why I chase pleasurable moments so much.
I don’t know the point of this post. I’m just talking to myself.
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Hardie has been taking a Nietzschean turn in his latest posts. The new entries are often meditative and aphoristic. They seem to be developing a point as they’re unfolding. Often, just the mood of the piece is the only point. Hardie wants you to feel empathy, not pity. Other times he seems to map out his thoughts for the reader. He wants the reader to know what it’s like to think with his mind, even if only for a moment.
He teases us, lately. He tries to get us to laugh at our pain.
He flirts with politics now, as well. Though never taking a liberal stance, he is openly using marijuana and doesn’t seem to feel a single qualm about it. I get the impression, by his tone, that he considers pot just one more medication. He dates more than one woman at a time, sometimes they all date each other in a threesome style relationship.
But I’m giving away my secret. I know more about Tom Hardie than he has posted. How can that be? It’s simple. I’ve read much more Tom Hardie than you have.
He let me read his journals–all of them. You have no idea the stories you are in for. I’m not sure some of you out there can handle his truth. But I am fascinated to watch this unfold.
Keep writing, Mr. Hardie, please. In fact, write faster!
I wrote a Buddhist prayer for you, Mr. Hardie. I hope you recite it with love for yourself in your heart. -HB
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I am addicted to the idea that life will someday yield unlimited and unending satisfaction. It has taken extreme events to make me realize my problem. I had to wake up drunk, on the front lawn of my life, naked—in the cold—as the woman I have loved for years rolled up to tell me that she has finally realized to be with me–at last! And there I am, in all my shrunken and shriveling glory.
The romance is over. It’s not life, it’s me. I’m the problem. I limped home: broken and crying, alone.
Things I know for sure: life really hurts; life is suffering; the world is painful. I will never change those facts.
I can only change myself.
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