My first love was a mess. My first kiss was a mess. My first fuck was a mess. My first alcohol experience, my first weed experience, my first real friendship, my first engagement, all my first experiences were messed up. But I always went for a second one or a third one or... I never gave up. From where came all those hopes and motivations to continue?
Why am I always tired but not enough to stop? Why am I always stronger-just a little more stronger-than any shit I'm going through? Maybe that's why the shit never stops coming through my life. Maybe someday I should give up and not to give a fuck about all the shit awaiting to jump over to my life one after another or maybe all together, and say: go fuck yourselves; I'm done. But I have a naive imagination of a life without shit that makes me like a child who digs the back yard to find her treasure. I'm at the point to find out that there is no treasure. But what is next? Nothing! Then I'm digging to find nothing to avoid 'Nothing'.
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