Care for a Rant?

 I can feel myself aging.

Every time I feel like things are going all right, they suddenly aren't.

That's life. The eternal rollercoaster of bullshit. Self-inflicted hamsters wheel. Humanity's intense need to put things into boxes and label them. Organize your receipts. Get up and go to work so you can have the money to do the things you want to do in life. Only you never get there, do you? There's always a bill to pay for an invisible service you might never use but of course you need it. Have to have it. Superimposed on you by everyone else. Your predecessors fought for structure and restriction. We should have stayed fur-clad barbarians on the plains.

I don't know where this is going.

Fuck, I have no idea where I'm going. 

Like the sensation of sledding down an icy mountain. Keep going, avoid the trees, sometimes hit one, but always struggle to get back into that dangerous, cracked plastic, bright pink Walmart sled and keep going. Because some asshole at the top said there was something worth making it to the bottom for. And why don't we just bail? Might take too long. Might starve to death in the woods. Might get run the fuck over by the other idiots racing along behind you. Might get mauled by a bear, swallowed by the blizzard, might trip and break your leg and shit, then what?

I would rather be Jack.

I would rather be anyone else.

Maybe someone with power. Confidence. Charm. Flair. Necromancy would be a plus too.

I should be editing. But I don't really see the point anymore. I like my stuff. Other people say they do, that's cool. 

Ain't gonna pay the bills, bud.

I'm so angry all the time. Like a quiet buzzing in the back of my head, saying angry things at people, making me laugh when I know I shouldn't be laughing. But it knows when to smile. It's pretty useful I guess. Just another tool in my little utility belt. 

I wonder sometimes if this is going to break me.