#00153: I don’t have a title in mind, so I’ll just leave it blank.

Hello, dear strangers.

The last time I sat down to write a post was when I wrote that post.
I didn’t feel any better after posting it. In fact, talking about what happened made things worse.
I hated my blog.
I saw this whole “journey” thing is stupid – here I am, pulling my 6th all-nighter in the past 2 weeks, sitting in a shisha cafe at 4am, writing to an audience I don’t really know.
Are you real, audience? Are you acknowledging me?

I forgot my Twitter password and email. Same with Instagram and Facebook.
I’m fucked in the head, folks. I admit it: I’m completely fucked in the head.
Drugs have fried my brain.
But I still take them. Why? So I can have the courage and audacity to live.

Why am I writing this shit? Because I’m alone and scared.
I’m a new country where everything I’ve learned about life in my 27 years of useless existence is completely rudimentary. Manners? Morals? Anything else? Delete it all and start fresh.
Too scared to deal with this new culture, I’ve resorted to my old habits: drugs and binge-eating.

My wife isn’t with me. (My marriage is confusing. I’m not sure if my wife will read this, but I can’t share with her the fact that now is the time I truly need her the most.)
I’ve never needed anyone. I always believed I’m independent and capable of adjusting anywhere.
Not anymore. I’ve changed, friends. I’ve changed from worse to worstest, and I’m still changing to what’s worster than that.
But I need my wife.
I need someone to be with me.
I need help.
I need guidance.
I need a step-by-step guide on how to quit binging on pills and food, stop running away and get my life back again.

You don’t even know who I am, do you? You don’t know my name, or where I’m from, or whether or not I like tomatoes.

Fat Boy Project? 10000posts journey? Goals? Targets? Plans?

I was so close to deleting this blog during one of the all-nighters.
But something about the number – 10000 – kept me away from the impulsive thought.
153 posts out of 10,000 is but 1.53% of my target.
I’m only 1.53% into my “journey”, and I’ve already given up.

I can’t make anymore promises to anyone anymore.
I’ve lost the energy to care about the guilt and shame associated with breaking a promise.
Sadly, what I’m going through mentally won’t go away soon.
I guess, in terms of mental stability, months and years are nothing but worthless numbers. Arbitrary.
One pill could ruin everything. One time. Just once. One drink. One puff.
It’s less like falling of the wagon, and more like falling off a speedboat while having metal weights shackled to my ankles, and then having to unshackle myself while fighting off the reflex of drowning, and then resurfacing again, before mustering up the energy to swim back to that speedboat called life.

I’m currently drowning while I try to find a way to unshackle myself. My body needs oxygen. Too many thing are all happening at once and I can’t focus.
One of the impulsive decisions my fried brain is telling me to do is to update my About page. It’s telling me that it’s time to remove the veil of fear of being scrutinized – the shame of being who I am – and tell you who I really am i.e my name, where I’m from, what I do in life, …etc

I’m neither back nor gone. I’m simply here for now, and that’s all I can promise.


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