I like writing, maybe some stupid shit that only I can understand every once in a while, or more often, but I mainly like writing when it's just essentially text to other people. I have a huge problem though, that maybe a few people can relate with, I'm a terrible people person, that being I have no clue what I should ever say. I've spoken to hundreds of people throughout my life, whether through text or through voice with practically the sole reason of doing so, is being accepted or liked enough for people to give two shits about me. I understand everyone wants to be liked, even if they don't explicitly say so. Some people don't try others just do. The hard part about being liked, is having something that differentiates yourself from others, in a memorable yet often good way. I wasted my young years being a shut in that practiced nothing others would consider interesting, now with even less reason to try anymore. What would make me a person not only others would like, but I would like as well? Something that I can do? The anonymity is my best course of action. It's getting harder to blame my waste of life on something like mental illness. Things fade, or you learn how to deal with them. I haven't seen much progress in anything. There's people who accomplish a lot in a few years or at least a few things throughout their life. Even with me not being dead yet, I worry I will never amount to even as little as "interesting" or had a good head on him. It's funny when you look back at peoples lives who have suffered through the same as I and they put that into something like music, art, or something else. My biggest problem wasn't that I slept all the time, never went out, it's the fact that every waking moment I spent felt like Hell, so I always was in my mind either conjuring up a better future for myself, or facing the cold embrace of death. I put no future into my hands, considering it to be a waste of time for me, chalking it all up to luck. "If I had this, I could do this, or life would be better." That sort of thing. I could say I pretended to be someone for so long I never got a chance to be me, but to be honest with you, even if that were sometimes true, I was me without the me part ever showing up. Or perhaps I have always been dull and empty. Though I doubt this was true when I was younger. For the longest time I was taking medications to make me happy, they never worked obviously. So now I'm wondering if it is really their fault and not my own. If they did what they were supposed to and I was left miserable by my own hands regardless. As if mental illness was the excuse for all my problems, but would you really give such an excuse to a murderer? At some point the problems are just yours. So here I am, not a skill in the world, not much I enjoy doing, and not much been done. I once called it a multitude of things. One would call something depression while the other called it laziness. It's incredibly easy to think that I can change and start doing, but every time I think about that, it's just a daydream to me.

Have the decency to help yourself. And in every possible way I can, but in every possible way it also feels like I absolutely, can not. That's probably just another excuse now though, isn't it?