moping, moping, moping, moping. Moping. Sleep is the only escape.
It's so tired, this routine. Pledging abstinence, relapsing, depression, pledging abstinence, relapsing... My loved ones are too nice to me. It hurts how they forgive me. But I wouldn't have it any other way. What a fix.
All the good memories from crossroads, the good people, the feeling of getting better - it's all tainted now, I wasted it, sold it for magic beans. What a stupid fuck I am. But that's part of the routine too, self-flagellation. Fuck that, what purpose does it serve?
I dunno, just writing. Writing is theraputic - not as good an escape as sleep, but it helps a bit. Okay, a few more hours of moping, then I'll sleep. It's all part of the routine. But I can break the cycle. I know I'm not a slave, goddamnit. I can take initiative, I can run this corporation.
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