Mr Rogers has returned to the building

… It’s 9:30 PM and it’s Sunday, 7th December. This is my confession.

The drugs are kicking in, the amphetamine is playing pinball inside my slowly rotting animated corpse and it is my ex girlfriend’s birthday today.

My little fortress of solitude currently consists of: Four very pale, white walls with a few show posters, drawings, some copies of old soviet propaganda, a desk where I can work, a window that’s never possible to see through because I never open my curtains, various empty teacups, a lamp, a vinyl player and laundry and not-so dirty laundry all over these two metres of space. I live a life without impulses. I am institutionalized.

Between these four walls I spend most of the time I have left praising my teenage sense of so called “self-destruction”. But do not cry for me, because staying at this pathetic excuse of a prison holds nothing but opportunities. I see strategies, I see ways to escape, I see ways of keeping this from happening again without giving up my independence, freedom and general love for life.

I stopped smoking because it’s stupid and I don’t see why I need cigarettes for anything else then joints. Paternacide by Morning Glory starts spinnin’ as I enter a sort of psychosis/revelation. I am not here because of drug problems. I am here because I made a mistake, because I got careless, because I forgot how to dodge their game. This is not a confession of my previous “crimes” or “sins” or whatever the fuck you wanna call it.

This is a confession of my carelessness, a confession for that I accepted the avoidable, I am confessing that I on purpose sat down in the back of a social therapist’s Volvo and let the fucker drive me off to a fucking social apartment to rot away until I was ready to face their bullshit with a smile that even Mr Rogers would approve as fake. Forgive me, Satan for I have sinned…