Insomnia isn't a bitch. It's a steroid-raging, professional weight lifting asshole.

I have way too much in my brain at the moment. The cliché question is: what the fuck is the point? I mean, all lofty existentialism aside, life is only as meaningful as I make it. Right?

I tell people that the purpose of life is to be kind and be happy. I feel as though attributing your existence to anything else is just making wild assumptions based on some bizarre-o world concoction that lives only on the mind of the subject.

Though it would be pretty hysterical if the whole planet was just an exhibit in an interstellar zoo for giant aliens. My reaction to that discovery would probably be something like, "Well, duh. What did you think was going on, exactly? And when do they feed us? The gas in my apartment has been out for a week and I'm starving."

Thanks a lot for the weird, speculative existentialism, Makers Mark. That's so like you; always looking out.

I hope for your sake that I'm already asleep.