Why would I want to see my relatives? Its a paradox; I cannot stand them yet feel ashamed being there. What’s the point? So I can present what little to nothing I’ve accomplished? That I’m still living at home at 28, barely making 400$ per paycheck? No car, no urge to get anchored down with someone, no career, just the occasional, crippling existential despair I wallow in like a useless pig in shit. That I have all these ambitions and skills that I squander and do jack shit with? Aside from their incessant yammering about the little empty things in life, as well as rampant materialism, what else can I discuss? What do we have in common aside from awaiting a cold, unremarkable death? I don’t relate to these people, blood-link aside, and the only things I could take foolish pride in is how I’m pissing away life once day at a time. Maybe I can tell them about the time I “accidentally” stabbed my hand this summer, what really just amounted to be a test to see how painful it would actually be. How I’d rather live in the realm of dreams, hopping dream to dream instead of this fetid reality. Or how I’m constantly wearing masks to hide my mounting frustration and disappointment in people; a morbid reflection of myself. How everything has been marginalized and cheapened, where even suicide has become a chic accessory that has hollowed meaning and no greater impact other than minimal emotional engagements. I’d cop out of this wretched existence, but it’d just be status quo, and I, a remarkably delusion fuckhead, still hold a laughable hope that I’ll amount to be something. Or worse, I will amount to be someone. Fuck dealing with these people. What shame I have wrought on my loving parents. All these waisted years, resources, and hopes they pumped into me just for me to be some mediocre, run-of-the-mill human being with a pessimistic disposition. It’s worse than even failure, which implies that I actually tried for once. I’m so lacking of anything interesting that it’s not even worth generating emotions or opinions over. Call it a pyrrhic triumph, or what you will, but that this is why I’m still putzing about like a living poltergeist. Having to face cheerful people, or be alone around this time of year is like a moonlight ritual to summon up these festering ruminations that lay in the abyss during the bulk of the year. This is why I fucking hate Christmas, New Years, this empty world, and most of all…myself.
