i often find myself wishing I could be seven years old again - wishing that I could be blissfully unaware and completely, utterly naive to the world around me. I miss the days of wonder and mystery, where I would lay awake in bed at night, afraid of what might be lurking in my closet, as opposed to how I lay awake at night now, secretly longing to fall asleep without the underlying fear of waking up the next morning to another typical, empty new day. Eighteen years old and i've been to the United States, Canada, several parts of Europe and i've noticed that the world is basically the same everywhere, and so are the people. The boring, average, greedy person, who doesn't care about what you have to say, who tunes you out while hungrily awaiting their turn to speak. The average person who thinks you odd, or freakishly antisocial if you yourself don't care enough to speak or socialize with them. You aren't normal if you keep to yourself, if you take more interest in a half empty bottle of soda over their typical, cheery, smug face. I would be lying if I said I wasn't lonely, but that dull, empty feeling isn't what makes me want to dissapear completely off the face of this earth. I'm cursed with ultraconciousness, I see through everyone I meet, through their artifical shroud of candied, mainstream BS which hides their true nature, their inner core of reeking garbage, their complete and utter willingness to subjugate certain individuals which don't fit in in order to make themselves fit in. Throughout my life i've witnessed people young and old socializing, uniting, unifying, relating to eachother over a common disgust for usually one person around them who is different. Usually this person is relatively unattractive, uglyness results in a lack of confidence and often stunts the development of a person, giving them gocky mannerisms, which when coupled with their unappealing appearance makes them a perfect target for the 'normal' people to spit on, make fun of, talk negatively of, and socialize/gossip over. I've straddled the fence between the poor outcast and the cruel mainstream since grade one. Always the eccentric, antisocial boy, lost casually in his own beleaguered, worn out thoughts. As a young child, I had very homocidal thoughts. If someone offended, humiliated, or somehow managed to get into my bad books, I would fantasize about killing them brutally. I always wondered if anyone else did that. They were never serious notions, I always knew even when I was toying with the idea that I would never in fact go through with any of it. Fortunately these strange daydreams dwindled as I grew older, now I just try not to dwell on all the depressing events that have occured so far in my life. Anyways, I'm pretty sure that ending my own life is the best option, I feel overdue, almost like a library book that you've been putting off to take back. I know most people probably have never even borrowed a book from a library nowadays, not with Wikipedia around, but the analogy is still somewhat valid, if thats the literary device I just used. I can't remember. I know that giving my life up will break my poor mother's sweet heart, it breaks mine just to think about how much it would hurt her, but that isn't enough to stop me. It's not her decision to make. I'm sure my family's love for one another would only grow stronger after my death, which I expect will come as a result of an overdose of some cocktail of alcohol and household chemicals. As a procrastinator, it'll likely take me awhile to work up the initiative to follow through, i've got to finish this year of university to get the moneys worth anyways, so I don't want anyone calling some suicide squad to bust into my res room and ruin my night, at least not for another five months. it would be wrong to say I wasn't asking for help, but only a small part of me has the weak hope that anything anyone anonymously could tell me would breathe any bit of warmth into the cold shell that i've turned into. thanks.