I hate the real world. Most of the time I just want to leave it all behind. Not that I know where I would leave for… Vancouver maybe. Live with mom. I miss her.
I almost don’t care anymore. If it wasn’t for my responsibility to other people, I think I would just give up. There’s just no point.
When I consider just how much time people have to spend working, it seems a complete mystery to me how people can work at something that doesn’t satisfy them in some way. And yet I can’t understand why I have so many days that feel like this… despair. Absolute despair that nothing will ever work. And hopelessness.
Too many people keep telling me that you have to put in your time doing things you hate before you’re allowed to be happy, or whatever… that this is what real life is about. I guess seven years worth isn’t enough. Maybe by the time I’m fifty things might be worthwhile.
Fuck real life. I want out. There is no point to any of this. I’m so tired of lying.