Woe is me, woe is me. As I sit upon my crown of tears, I cannot escape the thoughts which ravish my psyche day after day after day. I have been reduced to nothing as with each passing day my aspirations and dreams drift further and further from my reach. I am man no more, but merely a puddle resigned to suffer in this dank pit of a world.

I lie still in my broken form, without want but to be left with my thoughts. But the giants of this world see it fit to splash and laugh about in my liquid form, separating me further from the man I once knew to be Bill Bamser. Be their laughter that of mockery? I know not. It is unlikely, to such kings and queens I am but a puddle, not worthy of a glance or a thought. For who would have any desire for a wicked wretch like me?

My being is shaken, shaken by those who look down upon the likes of me. Shaken by the Gods which have resigned me to such desolation. Shaken by those worthy beautiful few blessed by God. Shaken by the few who see it fit to flaunt their wealth at those who have nothing. But if only it was mere wealth, it is a wealth of heart, a wealth of mind. It is a wealth of the soul. And those children of God lucky enough to be graced with such privilege and such honor, they squander it.

They walk about with their nose in the sky, unwilling to use that which was gifted to them by God himself. They know not the power they possess. It is this which truly cuts me to my core.

Ach du lieber. As I sit in my dormitory, watching the rain cascade down the windows as the tears do down my cheek, I am forced to contemplate my very being.

Am I not a good man? My God refuses to listen, but my faith keeps me praying. Do I not wake at early dawn each day to tend to the fields of the College Green? Do I not thank mother and father for their generosity? Do I not sweat and bleed and give all I can to whomever will take it? What more can a man do? Tell me God! Tell me! How can I be worthy? What must I do?

What must I do?

I scream to the heavens for naught. My screams and tears are just a gnat to a God, but an annoyance. My screams are without reason, I know the answers to my heavenly questions. There is nothing. Nothing I can do to deserve a gift like a geo-tag of my own on Snapchat. Yes, tis true. The source of my sadness is an empty bucket labeled geo-tag at the well of Snapchat.

I have come to know this truth well in my life. It is more of sheet than it is of shirt, haunting my being for the crimes of another. I take nary a step without this ghastly ghoul weighing me down into what has become my reality. Forced to remain in this world where I cannot see, blinded by tears for the snap of my life will soon expire and I am left without a filter to call my own.

I am trapped in the life of a swine, forced to send pictures without any recognition from Snapchat of my being. There have been birthdays, graduations, weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, I have done them all only to receive utter and defining silence from Snapchat. I know not if they be cowards or if they be cruel. It matters not, the effect remains and the result has yet to waver. I stand alone, refreshing until the app has become rancid. But I know now, it is not the app that is rancid, it is I. I am rancid.

There was once a time where I could turn to nature, look to the trees and find peace. But that peace has been stolen from me. For even trees, which are nothing more than a resting place for insects and vermin, are worth more to Snapchat than I.

Friday, April 26th 2018. Snapchat saw it fit to honor these towers of wood with a lfiter all of their own. But when I thought my heart could take no more, I swiped to find a geo-filter for Camila. I pay all respects to Camila and her first quinceanara, but a child has more than I and I shan’t forget that.

Although it may seem it, all is not lost, for there is still a glimmer of hope residing in my chest, weak as it may be. My wife and I have been attempting to conceive, at my insistence. When my child arrives, Snapchat will have no choice but to tip their hat, revealing the respect they’ve always had for me. But that day shan’t come soon, if it comes at all.

I’d ask for your help, but pity me not friend. For I will have my day, I know this by my God, Cthulhu. Please ease my gentile heart with a poke from a friend, on Facebook.


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