[Insert Foot in Mouth.]

Man is free; yet we must not suppose that he is at liberty to do everything he pleases, for he becomes a slave the moment he allows his actions to be ruled by passion. -Giacomo Casanova

I am a schmuck.
I am no poet.
No scholar, no musician,
no painter, no writer,
no artist.
There exists no evidence describing me as a strongman,
as a handsome bloke, 
a gentleman, fictional Don Juan, 
a shade of Casanova,
an interesting individual.

The confidence I carry with me is nothing but carefully fabricated disinformation, or just manufactured by firewater. If to "err is human", then to 'fuck up' is Brett Hamre. 

Fanciful ideas and big thoughts do not produce change. Imagining one's self as good looking does not change other's opinions of you. Imagining you are confident and sure-footed will not stop you from putting your foot in your mouth or making an ass of yourself.

I'm growing increasingly tired of my brain's never-ending emotional rollercoaster. Two days ago, I was moonwalking in front of the bathroom mirror. I felt like I could take on any insurmountable task. Today? Today I want to drive my truck to the coast and toss myself from a misty cliff, the waters raging against rock down below. We all get the 'I want to complain' to people moment. That attempt at unloading some of your pain to others, willing or unwilling, to help carry the invisible burden.

Increasingly common is the idea that I will pass away alone. No children, no close friends, no lovers by the bed as I drift off into whatever exists beyond the veil of mortality. I realize this being a self-tortured soul is probably the reason for this. "No one can love you if you don't love yourself," a friend I used to know told me that one night. This isn't about complaining that I'm bored or sad that I'm lonely on a Saturday night that you'll see many status updates or friends' feeds referencing if you just look at any social media (though this depends on your circle of friends). It's being frightened to stop watching TV, reading, playing video games, or anything whatsoever. When I allow myself to stop being preoccupied is when the "enemy" begins to march. I've stayed the execution this long and will probably continue to do so. Just know that the light at the end of tunnel may just be a brief moment of solace before you find yourself slowly feeling your way through the next dark damp pit. Don't hit your shins on any wayward furniture.

What comes at the point where we can produce no more tears? What is the point when there is no pain anymore? I'm at that point... numb.

I don't request sympathy. I don't write these words to make anyone feel sorry for me. Do not take it that way, non-existent audience. I write these to reveal my demons, to be openly vulnerable for all to see. So that if one person haphazardly stumbled about these electronic ones and zeros some day, they can follow the tale of one young "man's" journey into the deepest parts of human sorrow and hopelessness. They can read along as this 'protagonist' eventually overcomes this monster, or succumbs to the pressure of its unrelenting maw.