#4 etc., etc.

A malnourished "pffft" sounds escapes as I flip through the cardboard box of 12" inch vinyl. Best of Vanilla Ice, Red Velvet, The Sound of Riott Grrrl, etc., etc. You see, I collect vinyl rarities. Not rarity as in '+$100;' but 'rarity' as in "mid-70's abortions." My apartment is stacked with these. My favorite is probably Devil Got My Woman: A Brass Tribute to Skip James. Nobody knew how to play their instruments so it makes me feel better about the trumpet case under my bed that's collecting dust. None of these albums are particularly thrilling, but that all changes when I find the Holy Grail of the lot: The Old Testament - As Narrated by Winston Churchill. The Old Testament amuses me beyond the fact that it's profoundly fucked up; it's the response it gets from Christians.
"The Old Testament is in the Bible for a reason!" cries the defenders.
"It's totally irrelevant!" retorts the critics.
The reaction is not unlike two overweight Metal Gear fans arguing over whether Snake's Revenge is canon or not. It's obvious that Snake's Revenge was just a poor effort to boost sales in America, and the real sequel to Metal Gear is a Japanese exclusive.

Uh, so I've heard.

#3 its not mean if its type 1

The next stop of the day is Saint Nicole's Hospice. I love going there, but my enjoyment is severely dulled by the bus-ride. Milken Urban Transport System's busses have a habit of attracting over-ambitious parents in their late 20s and obnoxious babies. It always reeks of processed cheese and diabetes, two important factors of Americana...and some three-year-old brat just threw her Cheerios on the ground. It was an actual bowl of Cheerios, milk and all. I can't fathom how any sane couple would want to spend the rest of their life trapped raising a lost cause. I swear to fucking God, I will kill everybody here if I don't kill myself first. Oh, I've arrived at my stop. I walk into the shop and a college-bound hipster greets me at the door. "Welcome!" he says in a patronizing manner that's followed by a barely audible "...to Hell." Hell sure does smell like dust.

#2 my degree in philosophy has paid off

I'm at McDonald's. My hamburger is overcooked and my coffee tastes like unflavoured tea. I don't care about the tea; I'm more concerned over the hamburger. How can processed beef patties be overcooked? I ponder this while the manager, a tall 27 year-old male with a buzzcut, complains to his inferiors that Chelsey wasn't on MySpace last night. Across the room sits a man with ragged clothes chewing on a McGriddle. He looks at a kid with a Happy Meal longingly, as if a die-cast steel toy would make his life infinitely better. He then looks down at his artificial foodstuffs and sighs. I know it doesn't matter, but I refrained from putting any ketchup on my fries as a sign of sympathy. Some brat is blasting his iPod as loud as possible, and I can't help but notice that he's listening to the god-damn Smiths. I shed a tear as I walked out of the quasi-restaurant; not for the kid or the homeless chap, but for the cute cashier that winked at me. This McDonald's is thirty minutes away from my apartment. Our love was never meant to be.

#1 are you self-actualized enough to commit suicide?

This is an entry from my diary in 2017.

"I got up around eleven forty-six and ate some cold pizza. At eleven fifty I checked my e-mail to see if my song had won a radio contest. It didn't. "Huh," I said to myself. I put on my favorite Elliot Smith album for a while and stared at the carpet. It smelled like 1998, but the tag said it was made in 2001. The rigid threads of the carpet left an imprint on my skin, and it looked like I had a tropical infection. It was twelve seventeen now and I realized that I had to make the day pass. I hate weekends; I have nowhere to go because all of my friends are dead. Aren't school-shootings just peachy? I work at a deli that primarily sells honey glazed hams. I earn a modest amount of money. My boss is a big fan of post-modern art, and to "motivate" us he had a picture of Jesus rendered in CG technology that came out in 1995. While my iconoclastic co-workers were terrified by this image, I found it kind of amusing. Jesus looked so sad, yet he had a loaf of bread in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other."