The Next Morning.

I'm fucking done. I'm done sitting doing nothing, fucking about and not getting involved. I'm definitely not filling who I am, I've got the bitter part but it's bloody hard to be rude and critical when you're passed out on the floor. Soon as this bloody headache's gone, I'm going out and getting shit done.

Prisoner

From one cell to another. *big sigh*

But the reality is, so much has /changed/ now. Since the beginning of this. A life, in another universe. Happy, got my work done, engaged. Then I came here, out of nowhere. Bloody miserable all the time, I didn't even recognise myself: the way I acted, what I did. Then...we were locked up. Tortured. Taunted. And it didn't matter. I could be as pessimistic as I fucking wanted: life was still at its worst. Some might say they're at their worst when they're losing control of everything. But I'd say you're at your worst when you are denied the right to even try to be in control.

I'm definitely a different man. At least, now I am. But once I get back to work, things might be back to normal. At least, /I/ might be /acting/ like I'm back to normal. Never will be. I never will be. But I might be a bit like my own self. Bitter, critical, rude. Just the way I fucking like it.