I Did Not Kill JFK

The worst feeling ever, is when I got responsibilities within my hands, but I let them slip through my fingers. Believe me. When it happens, it feels like something that starts with an S and ends with a T. But what is worse than that, is when I have some omnipotent being that would remind me that yeah, I just screwed up.

The method of how I can escape responsibility is not demystified yet. And it is safe to assume that it would remain that way for the next million years. Responsibility has a romantic affair with those who do not believe in it, and it will not stop from beleaguering those who hate it. Despotism ladies and gentlemen.

I, myself, do not believe that I am responsible. Whenever I am in a position that I am accountable for something or somebody, I feel as though, I am in a tight predicament and sacks of rice are placed on top of my shoulders. Tenacity seems to disavow me. Nothing is left but the irascible, sulking nonphysical aspect of my personality that never fails to place me inside a melodramatic series of moving pictures.

Responsibility is like a narcotic, suggesting fuzzy ideas that incite furor most of the time. And furor it is to those who give in. Strings would be attached to their docile bodies, and passive zombies will walk to wherever responsibility takes them.

However, no one can ever tell me how to handle the responsibilities that rest in my hands. I am the master of my own drastic obligations. It is only me who can improve or exacerbate the state of affairs that I am having. This again, makes me feel like that something that starts with an S and ends with a T.