There is nothing inherently wrong with me. Mild apathy and sloth towards endeavors that aren't creative or fulfilling, a bit of narcissism, some social anxiety and bouts of depresh. Pretty tame. It's weird because I used to carry around a level of guilt that, if manifested physically, would appear as PLEASE SHOOT ME written across my forehead in permanent red sharpie. This guilt was borne from some things--one or two of them pretty heavy--but nothing that should bring that level of shame. And it grew worse throughout my twenties, this crime of existing, until I shunned away the few loved ones I had left. Most of them for good. I had to rebuild my "support network" from the ground up. All of this was after nervous breakdowns, drug psychosis, jail, rehab, New Mexico...I was still relatively carefree, innocent, throughout all that. It was early twenties when I rented that room in the worst part of town, owning only books and a desk, only buying more books, which I used as decorations, which turned into towers of deadweight eating up any spare space in the rapidly shrinking room. Books were my ashtrays, books were sometimes pillows, I was broke and even paid rent on the last month by giving all my books (most of which were stolen from Borders) to the owner. Then I moved out and was homeless for a while. And now I feel like this is boring.
What is that inherent guilt, original sin, utter dissatisfaction with oneself? Where from? Why doth it be like that? Who where'd the how, and why? I've grown from purely hating myself to hating most of humanity. A more holistic hate. Spread it around a bit, like dandruff.
Still afraid that if I ever feel worth something I'll burst into flames.
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