I Am So Tired Of You All

I have never been an extroverted person.

Now I’m somehow even less of one. Honestly, at this point, even just the mere thought of interacting with another human being, especially after how they’ve treated me this past year, makes me sick to my stomach. I no longer wish to get to know anyone. I don’t care what their hobbies or interests are, what their thoughts on anything might be, what foods they may enjoy, or anything of the sort. I do not care. I could not care less. I just want to be left the hell alone. I am so goddamned angry at the entire world now that I would be 100% perfectly fine being alone for the remainder of my life, or just living it out with only my girlfriend at my side.

People are liars. People are unreliable. People are manipulative. Even if they don’t mean to be these things, they are, and they’re often so embarrassed for being them that they take it personally when you bring it up, so they’ll defend themselves for the shitty actions, and really there’s no reason to have that or any other conversation. I know. I know this must make me sound like a cold, heartless bitch, but you have to understand where I’m coming from. 97% of the people I have dealt with throughout my life, including people I thought I was extremely close to and considered important to me, hurt me in some way or another, including people this year who I thought would never turn on me. And I know, I know, it’s “unhealthy” to still feel this way and to write people off as a whole because just a large amount have been bad to me, but consider this.

I don’t care.

I’m not trying to be rude. I just…I don’t have the ability to care anymore, literally. I have become so depressed, so deeply sick, that I no longer care about anything; about myself, about my health, about anything around me, about my work, about the lack of interest in my work, about my ‘friendships’, etc. It’s not like I don’t want to care. I literally cannot care. I am exhausted and overworked and completely used up. I really…I just hate people so, so very much. These days, I keep my headphones on, sit in my bed all day and try not to sob the entire time. I try to interact with the world surrounding me as little as possible, and a lot of that is because how other people have treated me, especially within the past year.

I want to be better. Deep inside I do, I can feel it, I can feel that itching to be a better, healthier person; someone who isn’t held back by their trauma and is instead working to move forward and get better. I thought I was becoming that person. But no. Instead I’m going to end the year that was supposed to be a step forward as 14 steps backwards. I wanted so badly to make progress, but that just isn’t something I can achieve. I’ve come to accept that. These days, I’m mad at the fact that I even have to wake up, because it means dealing with everything for another miserable 24 hours, and that’s horrid enough of a thought. I thought that perhaps sharing my feelings here may help, but nobody ever interacts, just like with my work, and so I don’t really have anyone. I’m not even “over it all”. I’m just too damn tired to be over it all. I’d LOVE to be over it all, but I can’t even muster the enthusiasm for that.

That’s the thing about being hurt for so long by so many people…it exhausts you to the point where recovery isn’t even a viable option anymore. Now I just exist. I try and get through each day without crying too much and ignoring as many people around me as possible. If I don’t have to talk to anyone and don’t cry too much, I consider that a successful day. That’s where I’m at. I’m sorry to sound like such a bitch. I’m just too tired to even make this entire post sound coherent. I’m just so fucking tired.

So very fucking tired.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!



I have come to a decision.

There is something rotten inside of me, that cannot be fixed. No matter the work, no matter the length of time spent on it, the effort put into it, it cannot be fixed. I am rotten, deep inside of myself, and it’s just something I am going to have to live with. People will try and tell me otherwise, say things like “You’re not rotten, you’re just hard on yourself!” but no, rest assured, I am rotten. Some part of me, deep, deep down inside, is rotten and will continue to rot for the rest of my life. The sooner I come to terms with and accept that, the sooner I can move on perhaps.

To clarify, this rot doesn’t make me do anything. It doesn’t make hurt myself or hate other people, it doesn’t make me have terrible impulses or anything like that. No. It’s simply something that I can feel inside of me, that I know shouldn’t be there, that I know not everyone else has, if anyone else, and that makes me sick in certain ways and makes me look at the world in certain ways. This rot had to start somewhere, but where exactly is increasingly hard to pinpoint. I could blame my parents for it, but that’s become drawn out and tired, even if not at all untrue. Could blame all the people who’ve hurt me, but then others would come to their aide, screeching “But you need to take responsibility!”

I need to take responsibility for how shitty other people treated me, via their own decision to do so? Okay. Sure.

Do I want the rot fixed? Probably not. It’s how I know to cope and survive. The rot is a part of me. Sounds sick to say, but it’s true, and I am no longer in the vein of saying things that aren’t sick, because that’s what I am. Sick. Sick and rotten. Part of it I’m sure can be attributed to the fact that when enough people tell you for a long enough period of time that something is wrong with you, that you’ll believe something is wrong with you. Weird, right? Almost like peoples opinions on you has an effect or something. “Oh, don’t pay any attention to what anyone thinks about you!” As if it’s that fucking easy. You’re not rotten. What I am sincerely tired of, however, is being told I’m not rotten. People who aren’t me, who don’t have to deal with my problems on a day to day basis making computer desk medical analysis of a person they don’t even fucking know. You aren’t me. Stop fucking tell me what you think I am or how you think I work.

And stop telling me things will get better. There’s a difference between betterment and false hope. I’ve accepted that things will, in fact, not get better. I accepted that a long time ago, and accepting that reality doesn’t make me a weaker person. It makes me accepting of my limits and capabilities, forcing me to focus on the things I can actually achieve or accomplish. No. Things will never “get better”, but they may, with a little bit of acceptance and effort, become “ok”, and I’m fine with that. Stop trying to get me to believe things will get better, because when you do, you’re only instilling in me this false sense of security in the future that, when it never comes, as it never does no matter how hard I work or try, only makes me more crestfallen that before you instilled said false sense of security. Got it?

I am rotten, and I am at peace with myself being this way.

And I wouldn’t have it any other fucking way.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!


Close To Monsters #25


Created, Written & Drawn by Maggie Taylor

This weeks comic is brought to you by your inability to look beyond what’s on the surface.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!


To Drown In Sorrow

She’d walked into her bathroom last night, locked the door and ran a bath. Once the tub was full, she climbed in fully clothed, laid down and relaxed, then slowly lowered her head under the water and kept herself there until she started drowning. Those last few fleeting moments of her life, she didn’t think of anything except that someone would have to take her cat, and once it was over, it was over. The only reason anyone found her was because someone had gotten some of her mail, and when they went upstairs to give it to her, they realized the door was unlocked and she was nowhere to be found. When they finally forced their way into the locked bathroom, that’s where they discovered her body, gently floating in the water. She’d been dead for 3 days. Nobody had called her.

The game of phone tag began an hour later, when her family was informed, and her sister had to break the news to their parents. They all cried together over the phone, and her sister took it upon herself to continue calling her sisters friends to inform them of what had happened. Each one reacted in somewhat the same way, with small differences. Some broke out in sobs immediately, some went quiet with shock, and others weren’t all that surprised but were still sad nonetheless.

The thing is, nobody had called her. Nobody had reached out to her. Everyone knew how she felt, they’d known for years, and nobody had done a thing to help her not feel alone, even when she reached out she was often shut out because they had something else come up that was “more important”, and now, these people who had “more important” things to do than talk their suicidal friend down were wailing on their kitchen floors and beds and their own bathrooms because their friend had taken her own life, all while realizing maybe if they’d just said a single fucking thing to her, she would’ve opened up more and this wouldn’t have happened.

“Gone too soon”, “this was inevitable”, “these things happen”. No. She wasn’t gone too soon. She wasn’t a martyr. She was a fucking victim. She was a victim of ignoring that which made her friends uncomfortable, too uncomfortable to help their friend they could see was clearly in visible pain that was pulling her apart right in front of their eyes. And now? Now here they were, tossing out platitudes about the meaning of life and how there’s ultimately no helping these sorts of people. How this is the way they all wind up. Again, no. She’d wanted to talk. They didn’t want to listen. These things happen? Yeah. You’re damn right they do, especially when you actively turn the other cheek to it. She wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of a crime or any of the sort. She did this to herself, because they’d all done it to her too. The way she saw it, nobody cared about her, so why should she care about herself?

She’d been brought into this world by loving parents, family who fawned over her, and she’d left without anyone. even. noticing. And the worst part was this happens far too goddamn often. But now she’d be nothing more than a photo on a shelf, her pain reduced to that of “oh, our daughter was unhappy”. She wasn’t unhappy. She was tired of being ignored, and she found the only way for people to care was to die.

If only someone had shown her otherwise.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!


The Death Of Your Make Believe Friend

What exactly happens to our brains that makes us lose our imagination and wonderment? When we’re children, we can play make believe all day, live in pretend lands and be so much more open and perceptive to ideas. So what exactly is it that kills that? And don’t be a smartass and say “age” or some stupid bullshit, because I guarantee it’s not that. There’s plenty of adults who are still imaginative and such, so it’s definitely not getting older that does it. Personally, I think it’s other people that does it. Others start to make fun of you or say you’re being childish (what? a child being childish?! oh no!) and so you start to adhere to what “growing up” means, leaving behind all the things that brought you joy, happiness and comfort.

I think of all the deaths you have to endure in life, the worst has to be your own childhoods.

The death of your adolescence is weird because it isn’t one that you actively recognize is happening. One day you just sort of stop doing the things you’ve always loved doing. I remember when I was a little girl I’d play with my toys in my room or the backyard, making entire stories and plotlines that carried through day after day, and then one day I decided, because someone told me I was getting too old to be doing so, that I wasn’t going to do it that day. That one day became another day, and another day, and another day and so on and so forth until soon I hadn’t touched my toys in ages. Thankfully, being the anal retentive weirdo I am, I did go back and finish the “story” that had played out over the years for my own closure, but after that…never again. The thing that made me happy, the things that kept me company, I just tossed aside like they’d never given me anything at all, all because someone told me I was getting “too old”. I was 11.

I think that’s why I became a writer, more than anything else, is because I still get to play with characters and story, just in a “mature, adult” way. Bullshit. The thing is, because I was no longer allowed to play pretend, I turned myself into a character, and did horrible things to myself on purpose for the guise of being interesting, and viewed the abuse and trauma I went through as my “prologue”. I was a very sick child, who’s become a slightly less sick adult, and all because I was told to stop expressing myself at a certain age, because society thinks it’s “weird”. Because of this, I no have no idea what I am, or didn’t for the longest time. Only in the last few years have I started to even try and decide who I am, and think of myself more as an actual person and not just a character in a very depressing soap opera. We need to start letting kids stay creative and imaginative and stop squashing their open minds. We need to stop turning happy kids into unhappy adults.

When I was a little girl, I didn’t have an imaginary friend. A lot of kids did, but I never did. The reason is because I couldn’t have real friends, so why would an imaginary one want to be my friend?

Buy My Book!                Support Me Via Patreon!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!


And Here’s Why That’s Bullshit

“Wait,” Sandy said, chow mein hanging from her lips, “Wait…the Lemmings thing is bullshit?”

“Apparently so,” Derek replied, wrapping his own noodles around his fork and bringing it to his mouth, “Apparently every single thing they’ve ever told us was bullshit. Lemmings don’t commit mass suicide, going swimming after eating won’t give you a cramp and trust me, you can wait much longer than 5 seconds to eat something off of the floor.”

“I don’t like how much you said that last with such confidence,” Sandy said, biting into an egg roll.

“Please, like you’ve never eaten something that sat on the floor,” Derek said, “I’ve watched you eat week old pizza.”

“Yeah, that was in a box, in the fridge. I’m not pickin’ up gross ass musty pizza off the ground and eating it after it sat there for a week,” Sandy said, stuffing the rest of the roll into her mouth and chewing before picking up her drink from the table and taking large gulps to wash it down with.

“You know, I bet there’s tons of shit they just never expected us to stop believing,” Derek said, turning one of his spare ribs over in his hands and biting into it, “You know, shit like that. Is there anything your parents told you that matter, that they made you do that you’ve now stopped doing?

Sandy put her drink down and thought for a few seconds, twirling a few strands of hair around her finger before replying, “Flossing, I guess. I haven’t flossed since I was like 17.”

“What a scam,” Derek responded, nodding, “I agree with your decision not to floss. I’m sure a dentist would tell you otherwise but that’s because they need to protect the brotherhood, continue the scam.”

“Exactly,” Sandy said. As they laughed and continued eating, it was minutes before they noticed someone watching them from a table across the restaurant. Nobody said a thing at first, until finally Derek motioned at the person to come on over and they did. It was a young brunette girl, she looked barely 20, dressed rather modestly. She stopped at the table and stared at Sandy for what felt like hours.

“Can I…help you with something?” Sandy asked.

“You’re Sandy Price, right?” the girl finally asked, and she nodded cautiously. The girl sat down next to Sandy and stared at her. Nobody made a move or a sound, almost as if Derek and Sandy were wildlife documentarians and they’d just stumbled upon a rarely seen majestic beast in its natural habitat, that the idea that any sudden movement or sound could scare it away and end the magic.

“I’m…Amber Gross,” the girl finally said, “Um…a few weeks ago, I was attacked by a man in my apartment complex and while he tried to assault me, I killed him in self defense. They said this man was…um…that he’d done this before, and one of the names that came up was yours.”

“This…this man,” Sandy spoke, softly, almost as if she didn’t want anyone in the world to hear, “Did he have sorta blonde hair? A mole on the right side of his nose?”

“Yeah,” Amber replied, “His name was Rufus.”

Sandy flashed back to that night in the apartment with Derek for a moment.

“Is this about Rufus?” Derek asked, hushed, like he was afraid of what would come next. As if saying this name would spawn forth from the depths of hell a million demons hellbent on the destruction of the earth, and often when regarding Sandy’s anger, that wasn’t a far off analogy. Sandy slowly turned back to the window and swirled the gin in her glass.

“Rufus has nothing to do with any of this,” she said coldly, “Besides, how could he be involved in anything when he’s a thousand miles away…”

“He’s…dead?” Sandy asked, and Amber nodded.

“I just thought…I thought it might help, once I knew what he’d done, if I went around and told the other girls he’d hurt or tried to hurt, so maybe they could-”

And with that, Sandy leaned forward and hugged Amber Gross as tightly as she could, the two on the verge of tears the entire time. And while a part of Sandy was thrilled someone had finally given the guy what he’d had coming for years…another, much deeper part of her was immensely ticked off that it hadn’t been herself who’d done it. Who told this random girl she had the right to kill Rufus? Rufus was a part of Sandys past, and now this girl just waltzes in, sight unseen, and lays it on the table, “Hey, the guy who nearly killed you is dead, you’re welcome!” Sandy felt weirdly violated, like a part of her private history had been touched by this stranger, just as she’d been touched by Rufus himself.

“I’m sorry to do this so suddenly,” Amber said, now smiling a bit, “I really wasn’t sure how to approach you about this. I figured you’d want to know, and-”

“Oh yeah, no, I’m…I’m really very thankful that you came and found me and told me this,” Sandy said, “I have to…I have to use the restroom. Excuse me,” she said, making Amber get up so she could get out of the booth and then scurrying off to the bathroom, like a frightened rabbit. Amber sat back down and looked at Derek, who was watching Sandy go. Without looking at her, he sighed and said it.

“You reaaaaally fucked up,” Derek said, and this took Amber by complete surprise.

“But she…she seemed happy!” Amber said, “Why did…how did I-”

“Let me tell you a little story,” Derek said, now facing her, hands on the table, “It’s titled ‘Commitment; An Exercise In Trauma’. Once upon a time, there was a young lady, let’s call her S for this, to keep it simple. S met a man named R, mostly because S was mad at this other man named D. S and R had enough in common to really hit it off, and after a while they were becoming quite the serious couple until one night, in a fit of jealousy, and after a two hour fight in the kitchenette of his apartment, R attacks S and attempts to strangle her to death.”

“That’s what happened isn’t it?”

“Because of this situation, S has trouble trusting anyone again. D has to jump through various hoops and hurdles, all the while taking some abuse and unrightfully doling out abuse back at her simply because D is, well, frankly he’s kind of a jackass. S cannot live alone, she’s terrified R might come back, despite not having seen him in years now, and she won’t live in D’s place because she can’t stand the idea of living in another mans apartment. What if D did the same thing to her that R did? So, D relinquishes control of his own apartment and moves into S’s, so that she doesn’t have to move into his, and she’s in control of the place.”

“Are you D?” Amber asked.

“You’re not a very good storytime listener,” Derek said.

“You’re not a very good story teller, so,” Amber replied, making Derek smirk.

“I’m not going to lie to you, I’m glad you did what you did, but you just show up out of the blue after years and drop this in her lap? That’s a lot to deal with, and we already have a lot to deal with. On top of inheriting a shitty economy, unfeeling parents, a government that wants us to die and living just barely above poverty level, and that’s IF we’re lucky, we also have to work through trauma. Trauma, which, for the record, most people older than us don’t take seriously and say we’re making too big a deal out of.”

“I’m sure people your parents age had trauma too,” Amber said, shrugging.

“Yeah, the thing is, they didn’t discuss it. They buried it. That’s why they don’t understand, and that’s why they scoff at it, because they’re just not capable of comprehending the concept of confronting trauma and recovering from it,” Derek said, “We don’t want to do that, because we don’t want to become like them.”

Amber nodded, starting to understand.

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Sandy couldn’t breath. She stood over the sink, hands gripping it firmly, not wanting to look in the mirror. It was taking everything she had not to break out screaming and curl up on the floor, eventually hyperventilating. She thought about the last time she’d seen Rufus, the last thing she’d ever said to him.

“One day somebody is going to fight back.”

Somebody finally had, and while it was well deserved given how he’d treated people, she was still so angry it hadn’t been her who’d done it. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped through her photo album, finally getting to the last picture they’d taken together, right before things got really, really bad. It was on a ferris wheel, and they were smiling. She had cotton candy in one hand, about to take a bite of it, and he’d taken her phone and taken the shot of them together. Why did this hurt? Why did she miss him if he’d been so cruel?

She collected herself, put her phone away and went back out to the table. Amber let her back into the booth, and then stood up, collecting her things and looking at them awkwardly and uncomfortable.

“I guess I’ll go,” she said, handing Sandy a piece of paper with her number on it, “This is in case you want to talk to me about everything. I’d like to listen. Nobody should have to go through this alone.”

“Thanks,” Sandy said, taking the paper from her hand. They watched Amber turn and exit the restaurant. Derek looked at Sandy and sighed, running his hand over hers on the table.

“Parents bring you up telling you not to lie, and then all they tell you throughout childhood are lies,” Sandy said, “And the worst one of all was ‘people are good’, but people aren’t good. Even the good people aren’t all that great, and frankly, I’m reaching my limit on people in general.”

“I understand,” Derek said, “You want to get some ice cream and go home and watch crappy ghost documentaries?”

“That sounds okay,” Sandy said. Derek nodded, got up and went to get some boxes for their food. As he left Sandy there alone, she looked back at the photo on her phone and exhaled deeply, wondering what it’d felt like when Rufus realized he was finally getting his comeuppance, or if it had happened too fast for him to even grasp the reality of the situation. Sandy knew it was wrong to think that those who hurt people deserve to be hurt themselves, she was staunchly against the death penalty, thinking the whole concept of teaching murderers that murder is wrong by murdering them was ludicrous, but she couldn’t escape the fact that inside, for just a little bit, she felt really, really good that somebody had killed Rufus. That somebody had finally taken control away from him, and shown him what all those women felt when he did it to them. She was just mad it wasn’t her, but then again, she wasn’t sure she even would’ve had the stomach for it. If she had done it, she would’ve not only had to live with the overall experience, but also that guilt on top of it.

It was soon after Rufus that Sandy started to try and dance again regularly, as a career.

It was soon after Rufus that Sandy and Derek started really trying to be together.

It was soon after Rufus that Sandy felt like she’d gotten her life back.

Abuse, especially physical abuse and violence, is hard to come back from. It’s hard to trust someone again, and while she watched Derek talk to the person at the front desk about getting boxes, she realized that while Derek had flaws, everyone did, nobody was perfect of course, he would never ever hit her, and that that’s how low the bar was set for most women. That was sad. “Well, he might yell at me from time to time, but at least he doesn’t beat me!” but the thing was, Derek rarely yelled at Sandy, and he did everything in his power to make her comfortable.

She’d weathered the storm, and gotten a lighthouse out of the deal. Somebody to guide her towards recovery, and that was more than others got.

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, my podcast “Coping With Tonal Shifts In Reality” or my writing over at Medium.

Wanna donate to me directly? You can do that via PayPal! Wanna support me ongoing month to month and get content early? You can do that via Patreon! Wanna support me but can’t do it continuously? You can do that via Buy Me A Coffee! Thanks for whatever you can spare, I really appreciate it!


I Don’t Give A Fuck About Birds

A few years ago, a pigeon flew into the comic shop I frequented while I was at the register.

Literally everyone else stopped and stood and gawked at this poor, confused bird and oohed and awed and I merely stood at the register looking at my phone, waiting for the guy to come back from fighting it to finish my payment. Reflecting back on this moment makes me realize just how absolutely detached I am from the world. And before I go on, I want to clarify, I’m not saying I’m better because of this. If anything, I wish I could be like everyone else. All people seem to need is a little distraction that they’ll tell to their friends, family, co workers. These stories will grow. The others who hear it will add on. Suddenly THEY were there and it happened to THEM too.

 “Yeah this pigeon came in while Mike and I were at the store and it screamed that his name was Rungar and that the owner had killed it’s father, and then the owner and the pigeon drew samurai swords and it got fuckin’ WEIRD, man.”

pigeonEventually the tale of the heroic pigeon who slain the murderous shop keep to avenge his fathers untimely death will be written in the aviary history books and told to the young chicks in school, when birds eventually rule the world like we all know they will. But, before we get too ahead of ourselves (I like to fantasize about bird societies as much as the next girl), let’s discuss my detachment from society. People just need little things to amuse or entertain them. A bird flying into a shop. People slow to a crawl to see a fender bender. I mean, Twitter basically was invented for this reason, filling people in on the mind numbing minutia that we all go through, day in and day out.

But what happens when you’re like me, and you’re so disinterested in the world, or at least the world as it pertains to people, that you wonder what’s wrong with you?

I mean, let’s face it. That’s not normal. I mean to me, a bird flying into a store isn’t new. I’ve seen birds in billions of places that birds are not expected to be. Shops. Restaurants. College campuses as they prepare their morning lectures on philosophy. Birds are weird, dude, they really get around. But I’ve seen it. Nothing interesting about a fender bender. No reason to slow yourself down to witness people calmly exchanging insurance information. Is it in the hopes that they’ll witness something better? That somehow this mundane simple exchange of insurance information will come to violent blows? And if so, what does THAT say about society? That we’re bloodthirsty? That’s…discouraging, to say the least.

Then again, I just about wrote an entire novel about a bird society and their pigeon warrior god, so maybe violence is built into human behavior.

It worries me. It makes me contemplate the possibility that maybe I’ve taken so much bullshit from people over the 28 years that I’ve existed that I simply don’t care to participate anymore. I don’t care about New Years. I don’t get involved in trending topics. I DON’T CARE ABOUT A BIRD FLYING INTO A STORE. In a way, I suppose I could also look at is as a blessing, because maybe it makes me detached in a good way? Like, maybe I’m above it all because I realize that low shit doesn’t matter. I don’t know, I’m just reaching to find any reason to not hate myself these days.

A bird flew into a store and the world didn’t change one bit.

But I guess if that’s what humans need to make their mundane, repetitive, tedious lives a bit more entertaining, even if for just a few mere minutes, than maybe it’s a good thing they can be so easily bemused, and I secretly wish I could join in too.

I for one welcome our pigeon overlords.

Hi, I’m Maggie Taylor. Like my blog? Maybe you’d like my other work too. You can view more content like my depressing space webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or my new site “Sad Party”, where I encourage people to revel in their sadness so others don’t feel so bad themselves. Also, you can donate at my SquareCash if you’re so inclined. It’d be more than appreciated.