The good fortune of someone I know, the obtaining of something I've long wanted, has left me bitterly jealous, which is a pisspoor reflection on my character. But then I hate myself, and I firmly believe that, unless I rigidly reign in my behavior, everyone else will hate me, too. As it is, I see myself through the eyes of others as pathetic, ridiculous, scatty, incompetent, toxic, annoying and absurd.
I'm just so desperately unhappy, and I don't even want to be alive. Everything I do—the pantomime of normality, the stumbling through my life like a zombie—is done for the benefit of others. There is nothing for me but transient pleasure and the anticipation of oblivion.
