So, everyone's asking how I am, how I'm doing, etc. Not because of anything in particular, but just because I seem to go several days without talking to a lot of the people I know. The fact that I haven't been updating this journal isn't helping, I imagine.

Hard to believe that I've been writing in this motherfucker since 2000. How time flies.

I'm going to be 26 in about eleven days. Fucking hell.

No one should be where I am at this point in my life. I try not to think about that a lot, but lately I haven't been able to think about much else. Those who know me know that my MO is basically long-term fucking up for short-term gain. The few times I have money, I blow it on frivolous shit. I fuck up job situations for stupid reasons. I refuse to do unpleasant things that could actually help me get my shit together. One could almost think that I wanted to fail and had some sort of "fear of success" thing going on...except that isn't it. It's worse. I'm just a stubborn bastard who hates discomfort more than anything, it seems.

The fact that I continue on makes absolutely no sense.

Which is why I persist in existing, I suppose.

Perhaps I think I'm in some sort of contest of wills with the rest of the world. That if I just persist in doing what I want to do, when I want to do it and putting out the least amount of effort possible, and I succeed even moderately, I win. Or maybe I just can't be bothered to give a shit because I don't feel there's anything to gain.

I feel as if I'm a bunch of ingredients without a recipe. And I can't help but believe that even if there was a recipe, it wouldn't create anything worthwhile anyway.

I mean, seriously, what have I got? Two unmarketable talents and a bad attitude.

I've been staring at the same future for a decade, now. It ain't pretty, but I made peace with it when I first figured it out.

I try not to be jealous of other people and most days I do pretty good. Some days, though, I see or read from people who are better-looking, but seemingly more inept than me at relationships. I see or read from fairly intelligent people who were born two economic classes above me and somehow manage to find more to complain about that I do. I see and read from people who are flat-out doing better than I am and complaining and whining and bitching about how horrible their lives are. I see this stuff and I get just that much more bitter.

Still, at least I can recognize that I'm just turning self-hatred outward.

Perhaps it's time I left.

Perhaps it's time I did something drastic.

Or not.

I can't escape myself. I can't become a different person. I can't shake the never-ending feeling of isolation that haunts me every second of every fucking day. All I have are my few distractions and the people I know, many of whom I abuse in all sorts of subtle and not-so subtle ways. I'm sure that's made all the more confusing because I am often equally cruel to those I particularly like and those I don't give a fuck about. Those that are useful to me get the least of it, I think, as do the extreme few that I desperately want to like me (none of whom, thankfully, are among my readership here at Journalscape).

Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on.