Ironic Shit

I'm in my room, in front of this computer. I am almost sense-less. I only hear my electric fan fuming some air from outside and a tiny bit of chirping from the duhat trees outside my window. I feel sense-less, not numb. Understimulated. Unoccupied. Alone. Undistracted.

Why do I feel it now? Because I'm unbusy. It's a start of a 3-day weekend from all the shit at work. But this is also shit. So, do I on a normal basis, during workdays, or previously, schooldays, just pile new shit over the constant shit in my life?

The shit at work, I can say, is short-term. I know it's gonna end in some way or another. I can't say the same for this constant shit, that drills through my brain when I'm unpreoccupied, unbusy, alone.

The world is beautiful. No doubt about it. But when I'm alone, I can't help but consider it to be also cruel. Cruelly silent. Cruelly unhelpful. Cruelly making it seem ironic or unjustified or irrational for me to feel shitty sick.

=WHUHAPPENED(GRAD( ),TODAY( ))

I can't remember if it's already been 1 year or 1 day short of a year since graduation last year.
Let's say it has been 365 days since then:

Anime, movies, cousins, friends, jogging, hanging out, staring at the ceiling sprawled over the bed, staring at the trees outside my window, exhausted with nothing to do, somewhat wary of the future, but relaxed, relaxed in a way that was missing for 4 years in college. That was 100 days of bumness. Not enough.

Then work. New people, amazing people, stressed-out people, time away from friends, friends over the phone, epic Fridays, drunk days, new things, just new things, Christmas hell, stress, change, drying up, acceptance, getting a context, taking control. 160+ days and counting. Not enough but sometimes too much.

Then now.

Crap

Freakin' crap.

Sinners spreading the Gospel. (the Gasp-el, if I may say so)

Bullcrap dropping from the ceiling onto his face, but he is God, the wise, the all-knowing, the untouchable, stoic, at his slow confident pace, able to entangle you in his bullcrappy hands.

Full-of-crap.

I love crab. But not crap. Bubble crap. "Crap-defense"-bubble-bursting crap.

Crappier than Scrappy Doo, but at least Scrappy's supposed to BE crap. Not him, this All-that-crap-I-Doo-but-I-say-otherwise person. Shit him.

Save yourself. Be a little less crappy is my not-as-crappy-as-yours advice.

But, no, I changed my crappy mind, since you're so crappy I can't take it.

GO TO HELL. I'd like to meet your fuckingly fucked-up ego (eeek-go) there.