If you’d asked me just a while ago, I’d say keeping up a journal is one idea best left for the dumbasses. Complete fucking utter waste of time. But here I am. Suppose wasting time is all there is to do these days.

If there’s any plus to this, I guess there’ll be something on the record to look back to if my brain does get eaten up by these disease-mongers. The way this sick world works is that I’ll probably just succumb to age-old dementia, struggling to wipe my own ass all by myself.

As it goes, I finally reached the coast. Gee, ain’t she pretty. Came across this island. It’s got supplies, a few folk to help me out. Really needed some clean water. Scavenged ’round. Found me a joint. Yeah, like weed is all I need. Not now. I got some rest at the town’s shelter after one of those nasty pieces of the infection almost gave me a big welcome hug to town that’d fuck me right over.

Not sure I what I can do here. For now, I just gotta limp my ass around for a while. Too tired to find food. Word is I gotta go get some medical exam…

Well. Your writing sucks.

So long, sucker.