Depression is such an ugly word. Just because I decide I’d rather be alone at home than hang out with friends doesn’t mean I’m depressed. When I start to hate meeting new people it’s not because I’m becoming anti-social, it’s because I’m anti-people. I don’t just hate new people, I hate all people equally; there’s nothing wrong with that.
When someone asks me over to their place and I reject, it’s not because I’m scared of having a good time, maybe it’s because I’d rather not go through the usual bullshit of pretending I’m interested about what they have to say. Everybody talks shit regardless of who they are; just different levels of it. Maybe I’d rather just stay at home. Maybe I like the feeling of listening to the blues on the floor of my dark bedroom. Maybe I prefer the comfort of playing an online game where no one knows who I am.
What’s the blackness around my eyes? I’ve recently decided I don’t like sleeping. Ever. What’s wrong with my hair and beard growing long? Maybe I haven’t seen the point in shaving lately. Get over it, it’s not like it looks ugly. Or maybe it does, I still don’t give a shit.
So what if I feel like I’m not entitled to have any fun? I do what I want: it’s one of the many perks of not having to leave my room. The aimlessness of life. Some seek it; some go crazy thinking about it. I’ve been driving down this long circular road for so long that I’ve run out of petrol. I need to park for a little bit. Fact is if I’ve got nothing important to do, then there’s nothing worth doing.
You might say that denial is also an ugly word. I’d just tell you to go fuck yourself.