Ah yes.  Here we are.  Cleaning my apartment is much better while drinking.  So I feel satisfied with my cleaning and feel the need to word vomit about things I have not touched yet.

I swear I’m not an existentialist, but maybe I am.  I don’t understand the point of life.  I’ve lived a close enough life to money to know it doesn’t make you happy, yet I constantly feel the need to have more money.  Keep up with the Joneses / Ms Edith Wharton. It’s hard to decipher where my feelings and idealisms come from … was it my brilliantly happy baby boomer parents?!  Did they set the bar too high??  My generation was over promised… “you can do anything if you try.”  LIE.  But not their fault, they thought they were doing the right thing.  The boomers grew up with the war, so they protected their kids promising everything they wanted but didn’t get.  And they succeeded in many ways.

Back to the existentialism … I’m not a writer and have never considered myself even thoughtful.  But a lot of thoughts go through my brain.  As much as I wanted, I’ve never been able to see the world like others.

 

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