Fucked in the Upstairs

I cried over my peanut butter toast this morning. The toast was fine, slightly dry...and I guess it was no longer morning at one-thirty...I digress....

I am purposeless. Sans purpose. Without el purpo...I don't know Spanish but I'm sure that's accurate. Carrying on a conversation the other day, I realized that I have no ambition. I strive to be creative. To be kind to others. To learn and better myself in any and every capacity. However, I am not driven to anything specific. I don't save lives. I hardly think humanity would miss my recurrent ramblings and humor. I wonder, often, what I am designed for. With billions of others existing just as I, I question if any of us really have a function. Some large and brilliant scheme that affects us all at some time or another. Do we all have reason? Are our intentions really so meaningful to any one other than ourselves? Perhaps if I had some larger goal happiness would rain from the sky and I would never cry over peanut butter again. When I was little, I had such fantasies. I dreamt of being famous. Not rich, but loved and known by all. I would aim to do what I was most passionate about in all the lands and the world would appreciate my undying aspirations. Now that the world in all of its infinite practicality has curbed my imaginative concepts, I am lost. I always pitied those who knew not of what they wanted to be. Those who seemed so aimless and unproductive. I was ahead of them all. I had desires that seemed too tangible not to come to fruition. One can achieve goals that require very little from other people. When your entire dream resounds around one and only one object...that being one of affection from other humans, the bottom begins to drop out. Foundationless and disillusioned, where do I go from here? I exist day to day now. My future is bleak...how could it not be? I have no vision. I spend most days thinking only of the future and now there are so many slots vacant I can't seem to put the pieces together. I love a great many things but none of which would make me a living. Am I doomed to roam the earth living day to day, taking no pride in my occupation? Making casholla my aim and watching tv to glimpse a moment of requited dreams? What should I be when I grow up is not a question you should be asking for an entire lifetime until one day you attempt to open your eyes, 'cept you can't cuz your dead. Yeah, dead. Will I long for fulfillment forever? Maybe that's why I search for completion from the opposite sex because my life is void of stimulation. It frightens me to think that I may grow old and resent my entire time here. Regret is a terrifying mistress...and most only like the top half...you know, the half with the boobs. Boobs are sweet...