Ted’s Little Bitch Corner on Video Games

Lately, I’ve pretty lost interest in everything. It makes life not worth living when nothing’s enjoyable anymore. I don’t know if I can still say “lately” if it seems to be the permanent state I’m taking on and it’s been already been a year and counting. My tolerance for everything has significantly decreased. I can tolerate a lot of shit, but I don’t bother anymore because it’s not worth it.

Basically, I just bitch about everything a lot more than I used to. I can hardly play through video games anymore. If you want to read my bitchings on video games, let me know and I’ll write something up. I hate how I have to get people to tell me to do things instead of just doing the shit.

My Current State of Depression

Unfortunately, I’m just for very susceptible to feeling good. Most of the time, I don’t even bother talking to people about feeling depressed anymore. It’s not that I bottle up my feelings or whatever. it’s just that I’ve expressed them enough times to know that expressing them always makes things worse. At best, it doesn’t change anything.

My biggest recent bad choice is not finishing a collaborative game project with an artist I met online. Sure, I’ve explained the situation to him and he’s being nice about it, but it’s not over. The project is still open right now. Everyday I don’t work on it (which is everyday), I have something real to feel shitty about. One might suggest that I should end the project definitively. But that doesn’t necessarily help me either. I would guess that it’s 80% done, but guessimating these things is nearly impossible because there are endless things that can be done to improve it. Inarguably, there’s already a lot of work put in it and it shows. It’s actually very lucky for me to be allowed to resume the project at any point and not be forced to abandon my efforts.

If I choose to take a firm stand at ceasing that project, I’m essentially giving up my entire potential game developing career. I don’t want to do that because game developing one of my more valuable skill sets. I value this skill because it differentiates me from the masses. It makes me feel more unique. Much more so than blogging can make me feel. With blogs, literally anyone can write, even if they’re illiterate. You get an infant to bash nonsense into a keyboard and that’ll probably get more media attention than I ever will. I wouldn’t even be able to compete with a pebble that was dropped on a keyboard and spelled “ass” by fluke. I need to feel more significant than a pebble. With games, there are far fewer people who can create them, especially quality ones.

Focusing all my efforts into making a name for myself in the video game industry sounds like the obvious career path for me. …until about a year ago when the depression started hitting me harder. I was working away at the aforementioned project when all of a sudden, I felt an utter and complete lost of interest. I’ve never been a jolly person and I’ve always happily labelled myself as depressed. (What a juxtaposition to happily identify oneself as depressed.) Every time the depression hits a new low, it feels like this is the real depression. All the sadness I’ve felt up until this point pale in comparison and can hardly be called depression if this is what depression truly feels like. When people try to empathize and say that they’re been there and it gets better, well, how low did they really get? The crap they describe sounds closer to what I felt several ex-depressions ago. Most of them can’t even imagine what I’m going through. They tell me that it only gets better from here. I beg to differ. I can think of thousands of ways for it to get worse and some of those will probably come true. Things would definitely be worse if I were physically ill, lost a limb, or became homeless. The list goes on.

When I was still working on my most recent game project (almost a year ago now), I was already suffering problems with sleep but I was able to get up and work whenever I couldn’t sleep. Unfavorable conditions must’ve kept piling on until it broke me down. In a sense, I guess I had a mental breakdown. I didn’t freak out or anything… I just didn’t bother doing anything anymore. Most days, I can’t even get myself to watch 3D movies that’s right in front of me and I supposedly look forward to watching them. Not sure if it still constitutes as looking forward to something if I don’t actually do them when I can. Same with TV shows and games. There are tons of them at my disposal to enjoy, some of them just a few mouse-clicks away. I force myself to engage in them every so often, but it just doesn’t last and I soon find myself having returned to doing nothing again. Sometimes I stare at the computer waiting for emails, which I often won’t get any for days or weeks. Sometimes I just hop back into bed, catching a couple of hours of sleep at a time.

I’m not just feeling bad because I’m trapping myself in this rut. I do go out every so often in hopes that it makes me feel better. I do exercise and hope that I get back into shape. But those turned out to be futile attempts. Somehow, I feel even worse on those days. Not everyday is terrible but it just doesn’t seem to get better overall.

…I know I’ve been kind of a bummer lately. I’ll try to go back to writing shit jokes soon.

Do, or Don’t Do

It is easier to tell somebody to not do something than it is to tell somebody to do something.

That’s all I wanted to write but I’m not about to leave this as a tweet-sized entry so I’ll beef this up with some bullshit filler. That statement is pretty universal save for two exceptions. If a person is physiologically addicted to a substance, then it would be easier to do than not do. The other exception is just semantics, double negatives. My biggest struggle with life right now is to not be a lazy bum. To be a lazy bum is to do nothing. So to tell me not to be a lazy bum is to tell me to do something.

I know I’ve previously stated that I don’t want to write too much about depression crap because it’s not funny and no one gives a shit. Since this is already an unfunny entry, I’ll throw in another thought I’ve been having. I don’t want to die. But even more so, I don’t want to live. My affinity to being suicidal is only because death is the lesser of two evils, given how shitty life is. I’m not suicidal (yet) because I’m living one hell of a dream life. Right now I’m just bumming at home with no financial responsibilities or any other kind of responsibility, Each day, I only need to worry about entertaining myself but life is already barely worth living. Why would doing more of what I don’t like (work, job, employment) to get less of what I already have (basically everything), make me want to live more. And if I don’t want to live, then why bother. Like I said, it’s fine at the moment, but I’m just planning ahead for when I lose my financial freedom, and I will. My parents aren’t wealthy so even if I leeched off them for the rest of their lives, I won’t inherit enough to sustain myself for another year so it’s just an inevitability.

God dammit I’d hate to just end it there so let me try to brighten things up a little. Umm… on the bright side… I did not have black diarrhea yesterday .

(black diarrhea reference: https://tedgaming.wordpress.com/2013/06/11/shit-stories-part-i/)

Depression Returns

Not that it ever really left, but it took a bit of a back seat for a little while there. At its worst, the depression debilitates me to the point where I can’t be bothered to do anything, not even turn on the ps3. At least for the past couple weeks I’ve been playing games. Even though I didn’t enjoy them much, I was doing something. Once again, games (and life) has disappointed me to the point where I can’t bother with it anymore. It’s not just games, it’s everything. I feel less and less inclined to be friendly to people or talk to them. I don’t bother trying to eat what I want and just stuff anything in my mouth to fill my stomach (foods only, no cocks, no homo). I don’t feel like I’ll be blogging much longer either. Even now, I turned the computer on to masturbate but I couldn’t get enough motivation to do that and I’m writing this shit instead.

Life just sucks when there’s nothing enjoyable to look forward to so there’s no point in doing anything. Forget about finding a girlfriend, I can’t even muster enough effort to find porn. I believe I’m a very tough person, physically and mentally. I can endure all kinds of shit that life throws at me and I still am enduring just fine, but at some point I’ve got to decide whether I should bother enduring shit for no reason.

My Life’s Paradoxes Part I

When I wrote about my dumbassery (part one), I mentioned that there was another topic I wanted to write about and this is it, coming to you several days later. I had a few ideas but I had not written them because I couldn’t find the best words to write them in. I still haven’t found the words yet but I’m going to write it out anyway since I’m trying to kill some time. I have too much time this morning because I woke up at 5am to the sound of fuckin birds. Fuckin birds… (It’s times like these that the distinction between fuckin and fucking actually matters.) I’ve already masturbated so I shall proceed with my mental masturbation, blogging. I am a truly masturbatory being.

Lately, I’ve been blogging a lot more than usual and it might seem like I’m opening up more. But in actuality, I’m getting more secluded because of the blog. When my friends ask me how I’ve been, I just want to refer them to the blog because I already wrote about it but my friends don’t like reading so it pretty much just ends all conversations. And what do I get in return? I’m writing for an audience of 17 people, probably only 5 of which will actually read my new posts, and these people aren’t even part of my life. Sorry reader, I have a tendency to antagonize you.

Being depressed and suicidal makes me not want nor need anything. I don’t need to hang out with friends cause they can’t cheer me up. I don’t need luxury items because they’re just wasted on me. I don’t even need to eat most of the time because I don’t need to live. Do I need to live? I didn’t think so. It took me awhile to realize that I actually do need to live, but only because of the definition of the word “need”. A necessity or need is something that is required to live. So by definition, I do need to live; I just don’t want to. It would be like saying blue jeans aren’t blue. Yeah, I know, semantics can be a mind fucker.

Ever since I wrote the entry on my sexuality, I’ve thought about it some more. I find that I’m attracted to lesbians more than straight girls. But of course, I’m attracted to the girly lesbians and not the butch ones. I’m like a butch lesbian… so butch that I even have a penis. There ought to be a term for a heterosexual who’s attracted specifically to homosexuals of the opposite gender. Oh I know, it’s called retardation.

…”Retardation” is the punchline but I’m not too fond of it. I couldn’t think of a better term that’s concise and funny. Other terms I’ve thought up include: self-defeating sexual retardation, fucktard, retardedsexuality, and he-s-retard-ed-sexuality. If you can think of a better one, write a comment for it. I don’t have any prizes to give but I can approve of your wit and humor. It’s sad how my two cents is literally worth less than two pennies.


…To Live… and Rants

For a long time, I’ve been having trouble trying to think up of concise words to express a certain emotion I’ve been feeling. It’s a depressing thought and I’m pretty sure I wrote about it in the early entries of the blog, back when I called it a suicidal autobiographical blog. Anyway, here’s the nice concise version of this thought:

(I had been unemployed and sitting around at home for a long time. People, particularly my parents, urge me to find a job because I need to earn a living.) I don’t even want to live, why the fuck would I want to work to live?

I was originally going to end this entry there but I like writing longer blogs and I figured out a few other things I want to write about. So I’m working part time at a library now simply because one of my friend’s girlfriend helped me apply (with my consent). It’s been 2 weeks now and I’ve been biking 7 km (roughly 4.4 miles) to and from work everyday. I had been riding a near decade old bike, that was shitty even when it was new, and now has misaligned tires, that scrape against the brakes, and brakes that don’t work. Given my passively suicidal state, the hunk of junk is actually a perfect fit for me. It greatly increased my chance of dying and I didn’t need to worry about people stealing it because it was a piece of shit. I laugh in my head just imagining the fool who steals this shit bike and gets pissed cause it doesn’t ride straight or die from not having brakes.

On my way to work today, a tire popped and now it’s a complete piece of shit that I couldn’t even make use of. I called home from work to let my parents know that I’m going to have to walk home so I’ll be later than usual. That sounds like healthy relationship behavior but I only do it so my mom doesn’t start crying and calling my friends like the last time when she literally nagged me out of the house… past midnight… during winter. That’s actually a whole story unto itself that I haven’t wrote about in the blog yet. By now, it should be clear that I don’t hold back at all. I only chose not to write about it because the story actually isn’t nearly as interesting as the synopsis.

During the phone call, my mom went hysterical and called me selfish for choosing to walk and making her worry. That’s pretty much my life summed up in my commute situation. If I walk, I’m selfish and worrisome. If I get a ride, I’m selfish and annoying and dependent and spoiled. I ended up getting a ride since it was just one night. I started making plans on buying a new bike right away because I’ll be needing it to get to work. But it was necessary because my problem solved itself for a change. It turns out that my cancerous uncle won’t be needing his brand new bike since he’s in no mood to ride it and he won’t need it once he dies, soon enough. Boy, I sure am lucky that my uncle got cancer. … I feel like people might call me a total douchebag for writing that last sentence but it’s just pure “moral” bullshit. Objectively, there’s actually nothing with it. Plus, I only wrote it to point out the irony. I couldn’t really give a shit about luck for mundane shit like a bicycle. A new bike costs what? $100? $200? Just this year, the government fined me more than triple that amount on a bank error (which the bank made) that I have no control over. Again, that’s another boring story that won’t be getting into.

If you ever catch me blogging about the bank story or getting nagged out of the house, then you will know that I have officially ran out of things to write about. Either that, or I found a way to make those boring stories really, really, REALLY interesting. By then, I better be famous or Jesus cause that would be a god damn miracle.

Oh, and just to show what a cunt I am, the free new bike is actually quite a burden for me. Now I actually have to worry about people stealing my bike. I liked it better when I rode a piece of shit that I wanted to get stolen.

More Icing On This Cake Called “Fuck Ted”

This entry was originally supposed to discuss how everything in my life has conditioned and rewired me to be trapped in vicious cycle after cycle with no way to escape. The title of it was supposed to be some lame pun about Catch 22 and how I’m 22 years old. But that entry was never written for I had lost the motivation to keep up this blog. However, I just woke up at 4am, haunted by a certain little incident that happened a month ago. It’s another layer of icing on this poisoned cake that life has given me. (“Poisoned cake”… that sounded lame and melodramatic… I hate myself for writing that, and continue to hate myself for pointing it out but not actually going back and deleting it.)

I have this joke where I say that my mother has a habit of crashing the car. It sounds funny and it’s kind of true too. To be fair, she doesn’t crash THAT often. It averages out to maybe one crash every 3 years, so it’s not like she’s crashing everyday, but it’s still pretty frequent. I don’t go out much and I remember this one time when I was walking past my mom at the stairs and telling her I was going to use the car and she responded matter-of-factly that she had crashed the car and it was in the shop. It was kind of hilarious how she wasn’t hysterical about it, about a collision as big as what had happened. I was going to move on from this tangent so I can tell the main story, but I might as well finish this tangent since I can sum it up in one line. Apparently, she dozed off while exiting the highway and fell off the highway ramp.

Now for the main story. It started on May, 2012. It was a typical afternoon at around 4 pm. My mom had gotten off work and was about to head out again to do some banking or some other mundane shit. Five minutes after she left the house, she came back in and reported to me that she had crashed the car into another car right on the driveway outside the house. I was forced to go and check out what happened. Not that I was too reluctant to do it, but it was a hassle nonetheless. The other driver is a Chinese man who can’t speak English. Those are the worst Chinese men in the world. Those entitled bastards who come to Canada (or any other English speaking country), refuse to learn the language, and proceed to ruin the Chinese reputation and everyone else’s lives. My parents are also these kinds of people but that’s a little beside the point. For the next hour or two, I had to deal with this angry Chinaman. What a treat.

The collision itself was ridiculous. It was a rear bumper to rear bumper collision and my mom hadn’t even left the driveway yet. The fucker was pulling some retarded three point turn or some shit. If you look at the geography of the road, it made no sense whatsoever for his car to be in the position that it was in. Two houses down the road, there’s a large area to easily perform a U-turn. But nooo, this Asian fucker who can’t drive decided that it was better to do a three point turn right outside my fuckin’ house and crash into my mom’s car. For all I know, he could’ve crashed into our car on purpose to solicit cash (which he did). Surely my mom is partially at fault too for not looking at the fuckin’ rear view mirror which could’ve prevented this whole ordeal. Or maybe she did look at the rear view mirror and sat silently as she watched the fucker fail to perform a three point turn and crash into her. I don’t know which is worse but they’re both stupid. I once wrote this racist and sexist joke saying that my mom is the worst possible driver because she’s short, she’s Asian, and she’s a woman. Don’t you love it when a stereotype manifests itself in life?

The other guy’s bumper was dented quite a bit and it was kind of funny how my mom’s car sustained no damage at all. Seriously, not even a scratch. It was like karma decided that the worse driver should have to sustain all the damage. But you know what? The universe works in funny ways because this story somehow ends with me being the one who’s figuratively raped in the ass. I wonder if this is called foreshadowing, even though the reason this story is being told is because I’m ranting and whining like a little bitch. But a better question is, why am I caring about the technical term of what I’m writing instead of just fuckin’ telling the story?

What’s worse than talking to a Chinaman who can’t speak English? Talking to an angry Chinaman who can’t speak English. And it’s worse for me; Because I’m Chinese-looking, Chinamen will walk up to me and start speaking Chinese instantly. Then when they find out that I actually don’t speak Chinese, they try to shame me for it. Fuck them. Go back to China if you want to speak Chinese so badly. As a Chinese Canadian, I have even more reason to hate Chinese people than any white man out there. Not only do I have to talk with this fuckin’ angry Chinaman, he doesn’t understand shit I’m saying and speaks Chinese right to my face. Two people speaking two different languages and neither one can understand the other. What a fuck fest that was.

This whole incident is another example of why I hate the world. The world we live in has to put up with crazy people and the crazier your are, the more the world gives in to you. In an argument, logic doesn’t matter; the louder person wins. Basically, this fucker felt even more self-righteous because he was the angrier one. Some days, I just want to turn my back on sanity and be the crazy one for once and have the world deal with me. Being calm and collected is apparently just an invitation for crazy people to dump their crazy shit all over me.

So anyway, this guy claimed his car was brand new and wanted us to pay him for the full repairs. He wanted us to give him $1200, and he’ll bring back the receipt to settle the difference. Paying cash up front is one thing, but who would actually trust an irrational angry fucker to bring back change? The funniest part about this whole negotiation process is that he’s talking fast and angrily, while  I’m speaking slowly and using my fingers whenever I’m talking about numbers, as if I was speaking to a retarded infant. Not that I felt this guy deserved to be paid, but I just wanted to hurry up and get this over with and get him out of my life and off my driveway. Eventually, we reluctantly agreed on $800 and not deal with bullshit change. Neither party was happy with it but at least it was finally going to get over and done with. This whole thing is like one silly nightmare. We didn’t even leave our own driveway yet and this fucker comes crashing in and tries to extort money. It’s even worse than the tax collectors in biblical times because at least they weren’t stupid angry Chinamen.

I went back into the house to type up a little contract. I never liked the idea of contracts because they’re easily forgeable. Truth is worthless in the face of evidence, whether the evidence is fraudulent or not. But it wasn’t like I was going to take this fucker’s word (in another language that I can’t even understand), so I had no other choice. I typed the shit up and used Google Translate for a rough Chinese version. Both parties signed it and it seemed like this ordeal was finally coming to an end. By the way, this story isn’t even half over yet… Fuck, this story’s long and taking a hell lot of time to type.

We didn’t have that kind of cash in the house, so my mom had to go to the bank. This shouldn’t be a problem for the guy since he was at our house; it’s not like we could run away or anything. My mom wounded up getting stuck in traffic for over 30 minutes and I had gone back into the house. About 15 minutes in, the guy rang the doorbell to check on the situation. Now this part is kind of funny because up until that point, my mom was translating between me and that Chinese fucker (I’m getting tired of calling him fucker and Chinaman, I need to think of some new names). I speak Cantonese and English, my mom speaks Cantonese and Mandarin, and that guy only speaks Mandarin. Even though I came out to have a discussion between men, my mom had to translate. Not that she was any good at it, but it got by. So now that my mom is gone, the Chinaman and I no longer understand a word the other person is saying. He was essentially defanged and powerless because he cannot speak English.

When my mom finally came back, it wasn’t cash she brought, but she brought her sister instead, to help with this whole situation. My aunt was against paying him the cash and recommended us to deal with our individual insurance companies instead. I had brought that up once in the beginning but my mom feared the risk of rising insurance rates. I didn’t really care either way so I slowly backed away and became a bystander instead. When the accident happened, I had to take control of the situation a bit, as a man, since my mom had no idea what to do. Now that my aunt’s here, I’ll let the adults deal with it. Soon, my dad came home from work as well and things got a little heated again. Because everything’s so messy and there are so many people throwing their opinions into the situation, we finally decided to not deal with the cash and just file the insurance claims. Since we didn’t make a transaction, the contract was nullified, and was just a total waste of my time and effort, despite how little I gave.

After the douche finally left our house, we went to the police station to report the collision. I had to help my mom with all this paperwork and “talking to white people” because my mom can’t speak English. The officer that was helping me was super chill. We had a chuckle about how ridiculous a rear-to-rear collision is, and I told him that we sustained no damage but the other car did. When I finished filling out the report, I asked him if I was done, if I needed to report to the insurance or anything and he told me I didn’t need to unless I was making a claim, which I’m not. At last, I’m done with this whole annoying business. Or so I thought. For the next six months, this situation didn’t come up anymore and I lived normally ever after… for six months. (I couldn’t bring myself to write “happily ever after” because I’m never really happy…) This is the end of the back story, just the back story.

One Saturday afternoon in late November, my mom got a call from her insurance agent telling her that her rates have increased because of that accident. It was understandable for my mom to question the agent further to find out what was going on, but my mom didn’t do it in a calm manner. Both sides were ticked off and now I’m thrown into the mix again, because I have to deal with the insurance and police to figure out if there’s a way to fix this. I have to “deal with white people” again because my mom can’t.

One of the reasons things have gone awry is because our insurance company claims that they’ve called us tens of times, left messages, and even sent 2 letters to get our story behind this incident. But we didn’t get any of that. I don’t deal with mail but apparently my parents never received those and the phone calls never came. I have no life and I’m home 24/7 so if they really did call tens of times, I would’ve known. How this major miscommunication mishap happened I’ll never know, but talking about that wouldn’t solve anything; I need to do what I can, given the current situation, as shitty as it is.

My parents yell about stupid shit all the time and this is one big stinking mountain of shit that they could yell about forever and still not get anywhere. Over the years, my brain has actually been rewired so that every time I hear either parent’s voice, I feel an immediate overwhelming pain in my head. Whenever possible, I would close all doors, plug in headphones and blast music so I can’t hear them. In the past, I’ve tried defusing the situation, but it would just perpetuate the yelling. When angered, my parents lose all sense of rationality which they never had to begin with. I can go on to write books about how messed up my relationship with my parents are but I won’t. That was originally a big part of what this blog is supposed to be, but I had lost the motivation to do that. Without going into too much detail at this point, just take my word that tuning my parents out is a relatively decent coping mechanism. But now, because I have to talk to white people for them, I can’t leave the room but I can’t let their yelling give me an explosive headache either. Every time they start a sentence in the yelling tone, I instantly tell them to shut up and let me deal with it. I despised having to “win” by being louder, but there was nothing else I could do. Rude as I may have been, they couldn’t do anything about it because they needed me. I would have gladly opted out from participating in this ordeal again but my parents had no one else to turn to.

To deal with this situation, first I went to the police station to retrieve the collision report I had submitted. The receptionist told me that it would cost $60 so I held that off for the time being and decided to call the insurance company to see if I absolutely needed it and to see what they have to say about the whole situation. I called the agent back and boy was he ticked. I was calling for the first time and only wanted directions as to how to fix the situation, but that didn’t stop him from hating me through association to my annoying mother. He was only an agent and isn’t in charge of the situation and after enduring several minutes of him being snippy with me, I was able to get him to give me a number to call that deals with specific claims. I tried to not let the unpleasant conversation bother me too much since I got what I needed from it.

I called the claims department and the person helpfully gave me the number of the person in charge of making decisions on these cases, the one that judges who’s at fault and who’s insurance rates increase. Apparently, it’s just some woman named Tania Ercolani who has absolute say in all of this. She tried to sound friendly and reasonable, but in the end, she was basically just a self-righteous bitch. I had to jump through hoop after hoop and a lot of the hoops collapsed on itself. At first she decided that I needed to give her the collision report before she can re-evaluate the situation. That report isn’t strong evidence or anything, it’s basically just my version of the story, which I gave to her many times verbally already. I don’t know why the report makes any difference, because I made her admit that she has the power to dispute everything from it on a heartbeat since they’re not hard facts. Regardless, she wouldn’t budge unless I got the report so I tried to get it. Back in the police station, apparently they have no record of that report. I had the report summary with the report number and everything but nope, they don’t have it and there was nothing I could do. Chances are, whoever files the reports decided it’s a non-collision since there was $0 damage and discarded it after a week, or a month, or 5 months. I followed the procedures and even confirmed that I did everything I needed to do, but apparently, following the rules only screwed me over.

There was pretty much no hope left but I called Tania back and asked her if there was anything left for me to do. The other guy had reported the incident as “our vehicle was struck by the other vehicle” and she just takes his word for it. She looks at the pictures of the damage and says that even though it’s on the rear bumper, it’s kind of on the side. Somehow, the douche’s story is more credible than mine even though mine is the truth and his is manipulated to make him sound completely innocent. I put all my cards on the table for her. I didn’t try to conceal any information that might benefit me. I clearly stated it was really stupid for both parties because I’m not afraid to insult my mother. She kept insisting that it’s my story against the other guy’s and that she needed some evidence, some pictures. But there is no such picture that could prove anything. Any picture taken, it is arguable that it was taken after the collision. I made her admit that but she tries to defend the system by saying that the chance of the other party lying is very slim. What the fuck? The chance of her making sense is very slim. There are clearly contradicting stories so one party is definitely lying already. How the fuck is it a slim chance? Why is the other guy getting the benefit of the doubt? How is one vague sentence more believable than the hours of conversation I had with her, describing everything in detail? For all I know, this whole thing could be an inside job. I give Tania credit for being patient with me, but it doesn’t change the fact that the other party had the benefit of the doubt and she practically agreed that there was no possible way for me to not be at fault unless the other party just outright said it’s their own fault. They don’t even need to put any effort into lying and they already win by default. What’s annoying is that Tania tries to maintain the illusion of objectivity by saying she’s always open to re-evaluate, but when I grind out the details, nothing would actually suffice for her to change the verdict. Which is worse, a bad person or a hypocrite who thinks she’s a good person but isn’t? It doesn’t matter because they both ruin the world.

Okay, so now it’s over. There’s nothing left to do. But for the next week, I couldn’t sleep because this whole injustice is causing me heartaches. I spent nights forming arguments in my head like the fact that the physics of the other guy’s one-line story has a far less chance of happening than my lengthy detailed story that never contradicted itself. But I didn’t bother calling again because I knew it was futile. Whatever. We’re stuck with paying several hundred dollars more in insurance and on a conscious level, I knew that I just had to deal with it. But that didn’t stop my stupid mind from being haunted by the conversation over and over again. After a week or so, I was finally able to forget about it.

A few weeks passed and I hit my worst depression to date. It’s far stronger and longer than any other depressions I’ve ever experienced. That was when I wrote the first 3 entries of this blog. I’m at the stage now where I’m passively suicidal as opposed to being actively suicidal. I know my life is pretty good by most standards so I’m not just going to kill myself. But I’m practically looking for a reason to do it. If I had just one extra little push, life would feel so terrible for me that it wouldn’t be worth living anymore. Another couple weeks passed, and today, I awaken to the haunting memory of this story again. Yes, rationally, I know this ordeal sucked but it wasn’t that big a deal. On the irrational, emotional level, it haunts me to no end. If I kill myself in the next few days, I will be doing it with Tania Ercolani and that fuckin’ Chinaman in mind. I hope they find out and feel shitty for it. But they probably won’t since they’re heartless.

The Depth of Depression

There are many levels of depression. For a lot of my life, depression had lingered around, tampering with my motivation and making it harder to do things. But that’s all it used to do, make things harder. In the past few days, it has become debilitating. That is a whole different level. It’s a miracle that I can even write this blog in my current state. As of now, I am completely misunderstood and if I were to end my life, people would think that it was a stupid and impulsive thing to do. Stupid? Maybe. Some people think that suicide is always stupid. They’re entitled to their opinions. But impulsive? No. But it’s hard to justify that given I’m only 22 and haven’t lived my life at all yet.

I force myself to treat this blog as my last attempt to get people to understand me. Even as I write this, I realize its futility and perhaps in just a couple of days, I will lose the motivation to continue writing. Every time I re-read one of my sentences, I recognize how stupid it sounds and my motivation drops. I mean, c’mon, getting people to understand me? Who gives a shit? I can’t believe I even wrote that. Why am I lying to myself? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I’m doing this for money and recognition. Even when I don’t give a shit about life, I’m still so vain as to pursue the impossible dream of making a name for myself.

I envy the depressed people who can’t find a reason to get out of bed. Being riddled with insomnia is another reason why I’m doing this. I can’t even lay in bed like a corpse. I get up, check my email and facebook and find zero messages. Look for someone who I can complain about my shitty life to. Find no one. Go to bed. Can’t sleep. And repeat this hellish cycle again.

When I listened to Marc Maron’s WTF podcast episode 190, the interview with Todd Hanson, it really opened my eyes. I will provide the link again here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mnOgjJwO14

Todd Hanson had been experiencing his depression for 20 or so years before he decided he should just end his life. I’ve only been depressed for 6 years or so and I still have a bit of desire to live. But if I extrapolate the bleakness of life to 20 more years, I can completely understand why Todd decided that it’s better off for him to end his life.

Then Todd talks about how he tried to end his life. I started becoming more interested and used his experience as a simulation for what could happen if I go down the same path. Somehow he survives but he ended up being in the hospital for 30 days. During that time, he was really touched by all the people who visited him. Even when they failed to cheer him up, they kept showing up to be there for him. There was one woman in particular who showed up practically everyday. Then I started thinking about what would’ve happened if I were in the hospital recovering from a failed suicide attempt. I wouldn’t have anyone visiting me. Even if there were people who are there for me during that time, it’s only a temporary thing. Once I get out of the hospital, everything will be back to normal and I’ll be just as alone as I was before. In fact, that happened to Todd too to some degree. I’m amazed that he was able to survive the tough times after that. To know that people will show up and pretend to be there for me, but they can’t spare time for me when I need them most on lonely nights, that would kill me. Actually, I would be the one killing myself, but that would be the reason for it.

I had these feelings when I first listened to the podcast a few months ago. Before writing this entry, I listened to it again and the feelings are even stronger now. Back to the question of why I’m writing this suicide blog… it’s a very petty reason. I don’t want people to look down on me when I end my life. I want them to know it’s their fault. Fuck everyone who wasn’t there for me when I was alive. I’m not saying I deserve help just cause I’m crying for help like a baby with this blog. But if you read this and do nothing about it, when I die, don’t go spewing nonsense saying you don’t understand why I would do something like this. You never gave a shit when I was alive, so don’t pretend to give a shit after I die.

Why Am I Depressed?

I won’t pretend like I understand why I’m depressed. I have some theories but they will also be disproved within this entry. One thing I do know is that I hate the flaws of being human. Everything, like my genetic inferiority, mood swings, over stimulation, you name it, I hate it. Emotionally healthy people would be able to embrace these flaws but I can’t stand them. Why must I be depressed? On a logical level, I know that I’m not in a terrible situation and even if I do feel sad, I should get over it. But I can’t get over it. I tell myself to steel my heart and not feel these emotions, but that doesn’t work. I then try the opposite and hope to cry it out, but I can’t shed a fuckin’ tear for myself either.

What is my current situation? I’m 22. I live with my parents. I pay no rent. I do no chores. I have no responsibilities. I neither work nor go to school. I can basically just sit on my ass and watch TV all day. On paper, it sounds fuckin’ awesome but I am absolutely miserable. I have no real aspirations, no goals, no reason for living. I have never had a romantic life, and my social life is pretty barren as well. Actually, one of my friends is coming over right now to play some ping pong. But so what? We hit a few balls, we get amused like chimps and move on with our lives. I may still have a few social interactions here and there, but there’s no connection. Sure, I’m a bit less depressed while I’m cracking jokes with my friends but once they go home, it just leaves me feeling even lonelier afterwards. The instant gratification of living in a developed society has given me an insatiable need to be entertained.

A big part of why I feel depressed right now is because I don’t talk to other humans on a regularly basis. Sure, I live with my parents but I barely say a word to them. In fact, I just grunt most of the time. I have gone days and weeks without saying a word to another human being. If I disappeared, no one would know, and no one would care.

Actually that’s not quite true. My parents would definitely notice if I’m gone. But there’s no love lost there. At the risk of sounding like a stupid teenager, they don’t know me at all. They don’t know anything about my personal projects, what I studied in school, my strengths, my weaknesses, heck they don’t even speak English. Sure they will be sad at first, but only because of the idea of losing a son, not me specifically. They’ll get a bad reputation for being bad parents, so if anything, they might despise me for dying on them. Reputation aside, they should actually be glad that it’s load off their hands since they’ll no longer have to do my laundry or cook for me.

It would seem that if I can somehow find a friend who can commit enough time to me, then my depression problem can be solved. But such a friend does not exist for me. In the previous entry, I mentioned that some people use suicide threats as a cry for help and I said that that was shallow and stupid and they deserve to die. I recognize that this blog is a cry for help and I’m not going to be hypocritical. If I do end up killing myself, I would indeed be one of the shallow and stupid people I hate and I deserve to die. Right now, I’m just shallow, I’m not stupid yet.

At this point, I would almost like to conclude that feelings of depression are strongly tied into a person’s social life. However, my messed up father is the perfect example to disprove that. He has no friends. None. The other day, one of his old friends called to wish him Merry Christmas and he literally got pissed at my mom for bothering him by handing him the phone. He’s a bit of a workaholic and doesn’t appear to have any hobbies. Well, if verbal abuse can be considered a hobby, then that would be his hobby. Several times a day, he’ll yell at my mom for being the dumbass that she is, and he even yells at me on occasion too. But he doesn’t yell at me for long because I don’t respond to him at all and one would get bored very quickly yelling at a rock. How long can a person yell at a rock for? Maybe a minute?

Next I want to discuss my realization of the depth of my depression. Marc Maron’s WTF podcast episode 190, interview with Todd Hanson, helped me a lot in my realization of my own depression. That was an amazing story to listen to. Very sad, very touching. Anyone who gets any joy out of reading sad depression related stories would enjoy it very much. There’s a lot to talk about it so I will give it an entry of its own. Here’s a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mnOgjJwO14

Depression: Fuel For Starting A Blog?

I am only 22 years old, but right now I’m suffering my worst depression yet. I’m not exactly suicidal at this moment, but I simply don’t have any reason to go on living. If I were suicidal, I’d just go to the kitchen, grab the biggest knife, and stab myself right now instead of writing this blog. But that would hurt. A lot. I’m already feeling a lot of emotional pain, why add physical pain on top of that? And chances are, I would probably fail at ending my own life so it would just end up being a stupid act of desperation.

            Boohoo, woe is me. A lot of people can’t give less of a shit about my little sob story, even if they were eternally constipated. If I stumble across some dickwad writing a similar blog right now, I would just laugh at his miserable life. It’s not exactly sympathy I’m after….

What am I after…? That is such a good question that I stopped typing for five minutes just now trying to think of an answer. There are all these fictional and non-fictional stories of suicide, where the loved ones can’t understand why the person couldn’t just talk to someone about it instead of ending his own life. Even in death, that person is still taking shit from the rest of this bullshit world.

There are two reasons for killing oneself. Some people just want attention and there’s no quicker way to get the attention of loved ones than to threaten to kill oneself. Sometimes their cry for help go unanswered and they turn from pretending to want to kill themselves, to actually wanting to kill themselves because no one cared. Those people deserved to die. If they’re so stupid and shallow, it’s a good thing the world didn’t stop for them because it would’ve just been a waste of everyone’s time. Then there are people who are seriously living shitty situations. Maybe they’re in a ton of debt that can never be paid off. Maybe they’re oppressed by assholes in their lives. For those who are in shitty situations, I’m glad that they were able to find a way to escape that shitty life through suicide. We shouldn’t feel sorry for them. We should feel happy that they were brave enough to escape the world of pain and shit. I know I’m not brave enough to take my own life at this point and I’m just typing away on a keyboard like a pussy instead.

To answer the question, I want this blog to serve as a motherfuckin’ long ass suicide note. Anyone who doesn’t read this blog in its entirety has no right to judge me on my views of life and death. If my last drop of life manifests as readable text and it’s not even worth your time to read, then you have proved my very point that my life is worthless. Also, this blog is a desperate attempt to make some money. Yes, even when I don’t care about my life anymore, I’m still materialistic enough to wish for a chance to make some money…