For a while there I felt like I had a life. Then it went back to depression again. Doing things can kind of mesmerize you into action, that “I’m doing something” mindstate. It’s comfortable. I don’t get it often enough, as a depressed individual of inaction.

My parents are so good at making me feel guilty for not doing things with them. They’re really slimy in this regard. Really devious and sneaky. Like they own me or something. Fuck.

I don’t remember what I was doing. Like studying French or CSS or something. I need to make a portfolio eventually. Where will the creative drive come from? I have some executive decision making to do, and my decision paralysis is sure to kick in.

Don’t I just have every common malady?

Well anyway.

It’s like the world avails itself of nothing I’m interested in. Everything is such hard work and so unrewarding and just torture and misery. No one’s forcing me to do anything (unless the world turns into a dictatorship, oh no!), so that’s nice, but I feel guilt tripped, maybe because of the parents, into acting.

I just want to, can’t I just sit in my room and be lazy for one day? It’s Saturday, ffs.

Just leave me alone. God.


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