I remember meber when I turned 26. I remember turning 30. For nearly every birthday I always thought I’d kill myself by this year or that age. Year after year. And I’m still here. Still suffering. There’s no sense of resiliency or strength in it. I don’t think I’m tough for lasting this long.

Instead all it did was confirm the fact that I’m a coward. Too cowardly to ask women out, still at this fucking age when even middle schoolers can do it. And too cowardly to take myself out of this never ending and futile race.

People my age have kids and houses and good careers and sex lives and spouses and happiness. I’ll be spending my birthday working the job that I swore I’d leave when I first started it in 2011 and never did because I’m a coward.

I would never ever ever discount the importance of looks because they really can carry you far on their own. But people really tend to downplay personality. I’m not saying having some specific sense of charm or robust love of life or charisma.

I mean something deeper. Something I can’t fully put into words. It’s the type of personality that makes you end up catching every red light in life. Until you’re far behind everyone else. The type of personality that makes every decision you make end up being the wrong one. Some sort of malfunction about how you see life that gives you distorted judgement.

I know I’ll be here Thursday because as much as I wish I could, I’m not going to end anything. And that’s partially why this sucks. I’ve seen my mind disintegrate over the years from being so lonely and depressed. Ive sought professional for years. I’ve read this book and that book. And here I am, I’m the cusp of 36 and my life has ended up being nothing more than pathetic and pitiful