It’s come back again. And only about a month (if not less than a month) since the last bout. And it’s been worse too.
I snapped over dinner tonight at Mom and Dad. I’m contemplating holing myself up in my room for the next week. I don’t really want to see anyone, but I have to at work, at Mass during the week and at church on Good Friday and Easter Day.
But all I keep thinking about is:
- “Is this life I’m living really worth living?”
- “No-one will miss me if I disappear. Temporarily or permanently.”
- “Nobody loves me. Heck I don’t even love myself.”
- “I have no friends. I am invisible to the world.”
Heck, I have even come up with a song, thinly inspired by Midori’s song in Murakami’s Norwegian Wood:
I would love to play with you,
But I have no one to play with.
I would like to talk to you,
But no one cares.
I would like to die now please,
But you wouldn’t come to my funeral.
I have everything I could want
But I have nothing.
Anyone who is even remotely an acquaintance to me must be sick to want to talk to me or even be within a mile of me. There is a part of me that is apathetic to it all. If this is supposed to be a test of some kind, this is one perverse and sadistic test.
But heck, given that I’m prone to bouts of schadenfreude, I hope this provides some entertainment for the rest of you. Watch me die slowly on the inside and outside. Heck, laugh at me even. Because tonight, I feel like non-existence is a better option for me. Where’s that bottle of Ardbeg again…
I hate weekends and Goddammit, I wanna be back at work again so I can work myself into slumber and maybe even die from the stress.