I'm really not. I can't handle anything without falling into a self-induced coma. I've never taken responsibility, ever. I spend months in agonizing depression, wherein I'm sure I'm a waste of a life, and I know my mom should have gotten that abortion. And then I come out of it. And I know I'll be great someday, and I know all this pain is just a vital part in the early life of any person meant to have an impact. It's just me growing, and I'm not all that bad. I do have loves. My greatest love might be writing, the alchemy of the mundane, telepathy at it's finest. I'm also shamelessly indulgent. I always admit "Food and sex. My two favorite things." And I never, ever want to deprive myself of either. Thank god for penises and chocolate.

 

What am I supposed to do when the person who knows me best is telling me I'm killing myself? Natural instinct is to ignore it, deny that there's anything wrong with me, and go enjoy my coma in bed. But there is something wrong with me, I'm a junkie, and my drug of choice is denial. I have no doubt in my mind that I'm a wonderful, smart, talented person, but those qualities don't count for much unless they're put to use. And who wouldn't be pissed off at the asshole scientist who find the cure for cancer, uses it on his dying grandmother, and keeps it to himself for the rest of his life because he's scared of being wrong. Gooooooooooooooo fuck yourself asshole scientist. And fuck me too, because I have gifts and I don't do a damn thing with them. When you're given something of value, for the love of god, share it.