There are moments in the day, like now where I have a little flash, a sweeping feeling of despair. I think to myself: why bother going on? Everything is so fucking hopeless and the world cannot permit me to be what I really am.

Then it's the hard part, carrying on while knowing this. I have to stand up and carry a printer downstairs, then leave the house for some errands, and I feel that its all fucking futile. I'm going to end this blog post, stand up, put the printer down, get into another pair of trousers and then go outside. but there's no point at all. No fucking point.