Wilted Rose
Everything has blurred together into this boring, grey pile of horseshit.
Food is unpleasant. I'm in constant physical pain, due to how my bones have grown. I can't look at anything without instantly pointing out its errors. It's difficult to become involved with other people, and to find positive qualities in them. Sleep is just a temporary pause from the insufferable stretch of wakefulness, and the dreams I remember only remind me of that. My mind stains entertainment by obsessively pointing out all of its gaping plot holes. Everything I want to do to help the world is either being done by people that are more capable and successful than me, or won't be possible until humanity is at a point where my efforts won't even matter. When I try to give advice that will help others with their problems, they tend to ignore it, mock it, or make weak excuses. The only person I have romantic feelings for has grown distant, and it's increasingly obvious they don't give a shit about me anymore.
So yeah, fuck my life.
Except for the pain, the rest sounds like clinical depression. Might want to talk to a doctor if you haven't already.
