opening paragraph to novel

There are several ironies that are blatantly murdering all sensibility and purpose of my life. Ironies that are brutal and unforgiving like some scenic atrocity a partial birth crimson address on the white tomb stone steps of out government—disheartening, crude, and a calamity. i'm atypically inclined to a sloth and slow boil of a disease like misfortune, festering and growing off an apathetic love and uncertainty—these both plague anything I come across or attempt. Thoughts pummeling over like some gritty homeless drunk—dancing and tripping allover everything, much like a fluid casket drowning the whimper of life from anything only to be repulsed with a vulgar conviction. They all flail the same, precariously holding on to consciousness with spider-woven precision, an ethereal line of what is necessary and proper and just what plugs the gaping arterial cavities in me and fills my lungs with enough poison to keep me alive. I think my recent self-realization that I’ll amount to a mere mole hill in life has suddenly grasped my throat and has been choking me, adding flame to the already blazing inferno of stress and self doubt. I've whispered it to my self a thousand times, knowing I’d spit it back out as some useless adivice I could never count on: slow down!, I never listen. I'm twenty-five, well I guess twenty-six—I forgot this past April added another year to my life—ever since I can remember I've been sick.