I probably may as well just kill myself, eh? There's always obstacle after obstacle, but it's in the most dramatically routine way possible. Someone's writing the book to my life and loving it, they must be. It's a crazy genre, mixed with tragedy, comedy, romance; a fucking psychological thriller written by the universe's most demented author. This type of thing always happens, right on schedule (usually when things are so complicated that they send me for rollercoaster rides, and usually a literal day or two after they start looking up again) and I always have the same reaction to it, and I'm not going to whine about it anymore because it can't be fixed unless I fix my fucking self, by whatever means necessary. Sometimes there's just nothing left. It's better I get out of here before I turn what's already ruined into an indecipherable mess. And there it goes. I swear it always happens. I have a pity-party. Whining was, I promise, not my intention. Meh, I probably won't do anything right now anyway. I doubt I have the balls. And I'm not yet detached enough from certain people to leave them. I just whine for the sake of whining, I guess. I hate me. Should be stronger. Damn. You should've ignored this.