You think life sucks. You count your joys and miseries only to find the ratio terribly unbalanced.
You wander the hours drenched in melancholy, a victim of your circumstances.
I get it.
You spend your days in self-diagnosis. Your highs are high and your lows are filled with screaming ultimatums. You abuse the notion of love, ritualistically scarring your heart as a testament to your perceived wrongs.
I get it.
The endless depressions, musings of suicide, and hints of substance abuse betray a deep seated need for attention. You complain about not having the answers to life, while being too intellectually apathetic to actually pursue those questions to their true extent.
I get it.
But I’m tired of hearing about how awful your life is when it isn’t. Of hearing how many times you’ve been screwed over, when you’ve done the same to so many others.
You enjoy the existential discomfort, and it even inspires you.
But until you get past this rampant selfishness and egotism, I don’t really want to hear it.