Not today.

I don’t feel so good today.

I don’t feel like anything could make me happy today.

Woah, hold on a wee minute there, buddy. You can’t just start talking shite.

I don’t feel so good today.

Don’t start thinking you can out-misery me. I’m the master of misery. I am Tristram, born in sorrow. I’m a black hole of the blues.

I don’t think I’m going to be proud of anything I do today.

I refuse to believe what I am hearing. You’re a point in time, the source of a million extrapolations. I am everything leading up to that point, one pure, single line of unhappiness. All your little failures, unremembered but still felt over the years, accumulating and bearing down on you. I could depress joyful June. I have made friends cry simply by explaining my grief, so convincing is my rhetoric. I can suck the life out of a thousand rooms.

Maybe I’ll write a song…

Bollocks. You’ll write nothing. I’m the one who writes the songs. Everyone hates your songs. They think your songs are dumb. My songs are the ones you let people hear and they go “oh, I quite like that one.” I’ll always write better songs than you, because while you were off having fun and making things happen, I was sitting at home and drowning in futility.

I hate you.

Hate me? How can you hate me? I am you.

I don’t want to be you.

Not right now. But a day will come, and I’ll be your best friend in the whole fucking world. You’ll welcome me with open arms because I’ll give you something to cling to.

What’s that?

A sense of romanticism? Misguided notions of nobility and truth? Who gives a shit. At least we’ll survive. I’ll keep us alive.

I don’t believe you. I’m not you.

Not right now. Some day, probably sooner than you’d like, you will be.

But not today.

… No.

Not today.

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