It's That Time of the Year Again When I Don't Like Myself

Tuesday, August 20, 2019

I hate myself.

That's it.

That's all I really wanted to say.

If you came here expecting some motivational crap because you're going through the same thing, well, buddy, all I can really offer you is some PikNik and perhaps this Spotify playlist, because music and junk food are the only things that do not feel like shit right now. No elegant strings of words here. Just a bunch of cussing and whining and bitching about this void of a life.

If you've encountered me recently, you wouldn't have outright thought I was trash. Don't take that personally – I thought I was not trash, too.

I now spend most of my days sleeping. You wanna know why? Because when I'm up, I feel anxious all the time, constantly on the verge of a panic attack, and junk food is the only thing that shuts that noise down. And I really don't want to eat junk food, because it means I would have to fuckin' exercise and when I do, I feel like I'm allowed to eat more junk food and that whole messed-up cycle is exhausting. So I just stay in bed, and now I haven't had any proper exercise but who the fucking cares.

I look in the mirror and cringe in disgust. I hate my face. I hate my hair. I hate my fucking knees. What's the point in keeping the upkeep? We're all going down.

And you know what? Thunder scares me now – a lot. I used to think it was just the gods going bowling, but, fuck, why is it so threatening all of a sudden?

The other day, I had trouble breathing and realized I was breathing the fucking wrong way. What kind of human garbage forgets how to fucking breathe properly?!

My jaws hurt from all the clenching it's been doing lately. I just want to rage. Break things. Stab myself, maybe. But when I look at my hands, they look so tired and it makes me reconsider. I don't know what that means but ok.

You might say, "Oh, but you have that documentary and all the other stuff. You should be excited!" First of all, I am excited. Secondly, it's myself that I hate, not the fucking planet, so don't you dare.

Others have it worse, fine, but does that make my woes invalid? Fucking shit, man. Is misery subject to such strict and absolute gradation that whining about the sky rumbling and junk food tasting so good must not be done out loud, lest you be branded an entitled, whiny millennial? 

Fuck you.

Fuck this shit.

The end.

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