jetpack_monkey | "Actually, I'm scared as hell."

Mom came by to drop some stuff off, saw how out of it I was looking, and asked me how I was.

I think I must have cried for half an hour.

The fact of the matter is, I don't have a job, I've convinced myself that I'm the world's biggest hack writer, my mother is paying my bills, I haven't made any real friends who I didn't meet through my girlfriend... I sit in my apartment, playing video games and looking up inane shit on the Internet, anything to avoid looking at the mess my life has become. I never leave except to get the mail or go to class.

I hate my life. I hate who I've become. I hate that I essentially left Iowa to have the same damn problems with a significant temperature increase. Instead of cowering from the winter, I hide from the sun. I don't know how to meet new people. I don't know how to make friends. I'm not sure I'd want to if I knew how - these things tend to explode in my face.

The fact of the matter is, I'm depressed. Okay, no duh. But... I don't know. I never really dealt with it before. I've always passed it off - "It's a situational thing, it's not clinical." The situation is making me depressed. Once I'm out of the situation, I won't be depressed anymore.

Ladies and gentlemen, I've been situationally depressed for as far back as I can remember. If every situation I'm in depresses me, there's something wrong.

Mom's calling my ADD doctor tomorrow. She's previously recommended anti-depressants, which I turned down. I wasn't going to have my "creative genius" blunted by any medication, no sir.

Yeah, well, if I'm too depressed to write, then it can't exactly hurt, can it?

I'm going to get better. I'm going to get through this. Things have to work out, dammit. They have to.

In other news, is 25 dollars a day enough to eat on in San Diego?