But my mind has fucked me over more times than any man could ever know.

Almost everything I ever think about or talk about is random and strange and incomprehensible. No one can understand what I ramble on and on about but that’s okay. Because I write and I act and I live not for others but for myself. I have the privilege of owning myself like everyone else, but I get detached and question, every single day, who the fuck I am. I still have no clue.