Speaking of non-existent banks, in the book "Momo" by Michael Ende, there is a time saving bank. I couldn't quite get myself to finish the book yet, not because it's a bad book. It's a brilliant book, simple for children but very thought provoking for adults. I was reading it on the subway as usual, helps the time in transit go faster and most of all, it helps me avoid eye contact with awkward jerk offs. I got to a part that fucking killed me. I was tearing up and I had to stop. I don't know why. I'm usually not very emotional, especially when I'm just reading. I just read words on paper, it's not like I fucking saw a cute animal die. Still can't pinpoint it. All I understand is I don't understand. I think I'll go more in depth about it in a separate post or I might be defeating the purpose of trying to think on topic.

My constant disjointed racing thoughts explains a lot of my habits. First being, I suffer from severe chronic insomnia. I often get distracted easily and start a million things but only finish a few. I consistently poly-read books, usually 5-7 at a time. I honestly do feel like at some point I'm like a child with autism but I'm an adult. It doesn't entirely fit together though, because I also tend to obsessively tunnel vision on projects I start on until I get burnt out and move on without finishing. I wonder whats the solution. I don't want to be one of the many hypochondriacs who self diagnose themselves based on webMD. I would rather not know if something is wrong with me up until the point I'm dying. "Oh, by the way you're dying. You have a week left." "Oh well, too late. Fuck it."  then proceed to donate my empire of garbage and do things I was too pansy to do. It'll probably be one of those scenarios where when you get old enough, you just don't give a shit anyway. Do all the drugs you want.

There is a possibility I choose not to find out about my mortality early on because, well... I'm an unmotivated lazy bastard. I procrastinated on life. At the beginning of this year or a bit towards the end of last year, I had a couple of swollen lymph nodes in my neck. I ignored it for months since it didn't seem all that deadly nor did it disable me on my daily routines. Wrong, I started spiking fevers on and off. It was odd since I'd randomly get a fever and be in a mild vertigo phase. Random ranging from every 30 minutes to hours. I assembled every blanket I had on my bed because I was so cold and I recall the weather being very warm. Long story short, doctor said it may be cancer in the lungs or chest area since it effects the neck. He skipped straight to my lungs because my breathing has always been abnormal. I have no idea, I never really listen to acquaintances or strangers even though I hear them. Never registers.

I was in the car that day since I got lectured to go that very instant. I got shipped off to get my lungs and heart scanned. I was oddly indifferent and apathetic about it at first. Then the paranoia kicked in, most of it was me yelling at myself. Getting in touch with my inner drama queen to the fullest. What the hell do I do now? What can I do with my time left if I had cancer or if its anything else fatal? I haven't made anything of myself yet. No major accomplishments. Nothing I'm proud off. Nothing to show for. Fuck, I might break my promise to you, the promise I never told you. I haven't repaid you yet. I just wanted you to be happy. I knew I was a fucking bad investment. &more dramatic thoughts going at 400mph. The entire trip was almost entirely silent, then she turned to me and cried, "This is my fault, I let you do this to yourself." And that did it, fucking killed me right then and there. /dramatics.

"Shorter of breathe, one day closer to death" right? I did most of the damage to myself. Now I'm just waiting for the a frozen poultry to fall out of the freezer and knock me dead on the head.  Then again, nothings ever in my fridge. Fuck my life and fuck my year supply of ramen.

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