a letter to myself

dear myself,

You know what sucks more than your life? You and the way you fucking live it. I’m tired of you crying about nothing and the way you complain about everything that your life isn’t. The way you say that you’re sick and tired of your routine life. How you’re always home and nothing exciting ever happens. The way you despise your friends because they will never understand why you’re so depressed. I’m so sick and tired of you. It’s not your life’s fault that you’re eating yourself fat and that all you ever want to do is sleep and dream about something that’s never going to come true. Stop hoping for a miracle that one day your life will ever change and become more than a low life community college student. Life is not a dream and it shouldn’t be based on one. Life is what television isn’t and what reality shows will never be. Life is what you make it, but it’s not when you make it. Get out live your life and screw everything around it. Live a little; smoke a blunt, fuck a whore. Stop complaining and do something to complain too. You say you’ll never have fun and that’s because you won’t let fun come to you. You say your friends are boring, but that’s only because you refuse to go out with them. You say love sucks and no one ever finds you attractive, but that’s only because you hate how you look and push everyone that disagrees. You’re a shallow son of a bitch who lives in a dream of fairy tales. Why don’t you fucking wake up and get your ass out of bed and when you do. Then complain to me and give me a reason to be depressed. The world doesn’t hate you because you hate yourself. You hate yourself and you won’t give the world a chance.

goob,