prologue
this is your life. you have a decent family and a decent future.
you have a sister who hates you because you're a little bit smarter. a little bit better. you have a brother who looks up to you. you hate that he thinks he will ever be better than the world. you want to scream at him about how unfair life in general is.

you're not fat, and you're not thin. you think you might be healthy, if you just got enough sleep once in a while. you're nocturnal. you know its your own fault, and maybe if you didn't piss off the afternoons you wouldnt have to work so late.

you pass out when it becomes even remotely silent.
you hate your predictability.

when you eat you make good choices most of the time. when you don't eat you challenge yourself to see how long you can last. its never long enough, no matter how many times you try.

you don't like a whole lot of things, but when you find something that you have a chance of loving, you attach yourself to it until it stops breathing. you hate opinions.

you want to tell your best friend the deepest, darkest, most secret part of yourself, but you don't want their image of you to change that drastically. sometimes you think best friends are overrated anyway.

you have these distinctive habits, like little routines throughout your day, and whenever someone catches on, you wish they were never looking in the first place.

you don't imagine you will ever be great or dramatic or well-known. you continue to believe that your birth has not and will not affect the earth. your timeline is your own, and sometimes you hate hate hate it.

the way everyone has to be so controversial about everything makes you sick. opinions are opinions are opinions. everyone and their selfish, righteous selves will forever be arguing about anything interesting.
things, you think, are only interesting when they are debateable. you can't imagine someone fully believing the earth is the center of the galaxy anymore.

you knowingly sabotage yourself. you wish you could be a little more demanding and determined, but you continue with your life in a passive and indifferent state.

when you close your eyes you see impossible scenes. they are vivid and real and rich in detail. they are excessively morbid, and you wish you could paint well enough to get it out of you.

you hate catch-phrases. you use made-up catch-phrases. you hate them.

you have a passion for writing. you like having subjects and verbs collide and form pleasing structures. whenever you re-read anything, you wish you weren't so young or naive.

the end is here