An evening like no other.

An evening like no other. A completely worthless evening. At least my sickness hasn’t worsened. No sudden rise in body temperature. The weakness is still there. Maybe reading a little Dostoyevsky will make me feel better. Notes from the Underground. Started reading it a year and a half ago. I am a terrible reader. A bad fucking reader. I love to buy books and I hate to actually read them. And I buy only gems. I haven’t bought a single bad book in a life, except for a couple of times from Instagram fucking trash poets. Fucking trash poets! Not all but most of them. Just fucking trash. Can’t write a fucking simple sentence, and they write boring shit. It’s all fucking boring nonsense there these days. I have found WordPress to be a much better platform for sharing writing and finding other meaningful writers. I haven’t found many, here or there, but this place beats Instagram by any standard. Now, off to drinking hot bitter coffee. I can’t even make coffee right these days. FUCK!

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5 thoughts on “An evening like no other.

  1. Entertaining similar thoughts, strangely enough. I had to quit a short story anthology ARC this week because I just couldn’t take it anymore. I’m nothing special as a writer but, Christ… If I can’t find something positive to say half way through your anthology, what’s the point of finishing?

    Hope your Dostoevsky satisfies. The mention of him reminds me I should probably finally get around to filling that void in my reading experiences although Mervyn Peake is on my radar at the moment. Undecided about that one, though.

    Liked by 1 person

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