The Obscure

There is something dreadfully wrong with me. I am more tired now than I have ever been before in my life, yet I need medications to even make sleep an option. Every part of my body feels like it is broken and worn-out, like an old jalopy held together with coat hangers and duct-tape.
What am I doing here? Why do I let myself hope for a content life, when I know in my heart of hearts that all I will ever find is loneliness and ashes. How is it that I miss the people who I once swore I hated? How can I be angry with myself for never committing suicide when I had the opportunity?
That opportunity has passed me by, now. I have too many obligations to kill myself. Think of all the chaos it would cause, who would bake the cookies? Who would feed the cats when my dad forgets to?
That's really what I have to live for now; it's sad to say it, but it's true. "What are your plans?" people ask me.
How can I tell them my plans?
"Well, uh, now that I have dropped out of high school I am planning on spinning into a slow cycle of self-destruction until I finally die of heart failure at the age of 23."
"Oh." they reply, "So you aren't going to college then? You should go to college, you know you have the brains for it."
There is no phrase on the face of god's green earth that I have come to abhor more than "you have the brains for it." Who are you bastards to tell me how smart I am? Who are you bastards to tell me the ideal way to carry out my own life?

This is my impression of me when I was 14 years old. Pretty good, isn't it?
It is obvious that I am the least eloquent person alive, so I am going to end this section of the blog post with a small question that no one will be able to answer, and (of course) no answer is required.
Why am I so lonely?