Looking at the people around you. Seeing them greet each other, smiling, talking, laughing, wanting to speak to one another.
Looking at yourself, alone, realising no one ever wants to talk to you.
you're the dickhead. That you're doing something wrong.
Realising that you're a dislikeable person.
Trying so hard, trying so fucking hard. Why don't people like you? What did you do? You never wanted people to hate you.
Looking at them. They look so happy, together. They decided, maybe subconsciously, that you aren't good enough. That you aren't good enough to be happy, like them.
But that's not their fault. How could it be? You're the dickhead people «al, bout, the shole friend ho so monter brother father unde bad.
Forso you toughe us mable, aroud friend sain out meant
them, you thought they liked you, but they don't. Just like everyone else.
You're so lonely.
You sit at home, at a desk, watching a screen. Refreshing. Porn doesn't work anymore, not really. You've had a few experiences, a few girlfriends, maybe had sex, and you yearn to be with that someone, someone to hold you, love you. Someone for you to love, to hold. To make each other happy.
you realist. dve been there, and i doesn't work. le doesn't make you
But that's what you were holding out for to make you happy. You realise your life is based on a fairytale that will never come true. You will never be happy.
Why don't you neck yourself, jump in front of a train, cut your wrists and lie in a bath tub, and let your life slowly and peacefully drain away?
Oh.
You fear it; it keeps you up at night. You comprehend, in moments of arcale enchest date shou means te silose dose. You cante
just suffocate yourself.
You realise you face a life devoid of happiness or meaning, whilst at the same time fearing the alternative, which you can't escape anyway.
But you wait anyway.