It’s hard to argue with results, especially if they’re contradictory. I’ve chosen a life of solitude. I can’t keep holding a grudge against people for being themselves. The grudge is my fault, though the cause isn’t my onus. I want to be a different person, a person that can get along with more people and tolerate more of individual flaws and self-justifications. But the results show a different revelation.

I bring my life into a perspective of self-worth and dedication, and I try to mind myself. I work in a job that looks down on personal output outside of it, so any accomplishments matter less than what happens on the other side of the world. Because of this, I keep to myself.
I have friends that regard insignificant misdemeanors in a higher regard than anything I’ve ever said. I can’t control the thoughts of others, but I can control my demographical intake. Because of this, I keep to myself.

I worry constantly that I’m becoming more and more like my father, who’s stricken with mental illness and is a pompous ingrate. I find myself judging people in a similar fashion, and I can’t help but feel self-loathing. But I can’t help but find myself engulfed in characteristics sewed and highlighted by the ignorance and disregard of others. Sure, it’s my fault that I retain my attachment to those that put brief fulfillment over overall progress and choose to live a life meant for both hobos and groupies. But, much like every single frustration in my life, I go through a self-analytical phase that breaks down all bits of my life, and I find some sort of way to blame myself for the mistakes and the issues that I have with others. I can’t keep living this way.

Time is something that I hope can fix things, like people. It can’t seem to fix my perspective any better than that which I perceive. I hope too hard. I wish too positively. I want this life to be something like I see in my head, a life where one can live a life through one’s efforts and inputs. But, that’s how it really is, and the result isn’t what I want. So, it’s my fault that I expect too much. Still, I can’t help but hate feeling forgotten and disrespected even after all of this self-refinement and spent time on my own life and its betterment. What can I do besides remain in solitude?

Today is my birthday, and, in prime fashion, everything has already gone wrong. I have been kept awake until after six AM by stoners and drunks, one of which is family. I don’t go to the defense of drunks and stoners, and I obviously take my own birth far too seriously. Apparently. On top of all this, it bothers me the absolute most that all of my words now are filled with so much self-hatred that mimics suicidal tendencies. God, does it bother me, almost as much as it does to hate my own birthday. The Misses mentioned my birthday, and I immediately got mad. What can I even do about that, when my memories of birthdays are of solitude? Why am I complaining when that’s what I want? I obviously expect too much of others to regard my existence.

I hear things like, “I need a dictionary when I talk to you,” or “you need to stop using such big words in a writing class,” or “why don’t you ever go out?” I’ve obviously chosen the wrong path in life by choosing integrity, and that fact pisses me right off. The only thing now that keeps my thoughts in place is the act of writing. I feel fulfillment after doing it, a fulfillment that can’t be compared or matched, so I’m going to stick solely to it. I don’t feel value in human interactions, because my life has been disregarded for far too long to hold any respect in it or others. And I hate that fact.

I want to have hope in people, even though I’m still being kept up by stoners and drunks as I write this on the sleep-deprived morning of my 25th birthday, but my desire for hope dwindles as each experience shivs my motivation to respect my own race. It’s hard to be me, because I make it that way. But I can’t find anything else when I’m backed in a corner.
Sure, Crystal is here, but I feel as though I’m bringing her down with me. She’s so incredibly talented, and I don’t want to be the reason for any failure in her life. So I can’t help but put myself on the back burner. Everyone else knows what they want out of one’s life, so what can I do besides watch and hope? Apparently, nothing. I can’t help but hate my life, though it’s all self-inflicted, according to the results of my life. I’m one opinion versus the rest of the world, and I can’t help but feel insignificant.
I hate my birthdays.