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September 7th, 2021

The closing lyrics to Rex Orange County’s single, Uno, have been on a semi-consistent repeat in my head. “Nothing makes me laugh and nothing makes me smile.” I keep hearing music that doesn’t resonate with me. Nothing resonates with me. Nothing excites me. Nothing I can do I feel I would be better off doing. I’m never “myself.” It’s gotten to the point where I’ve begun asking myself “what would Hashbrown do?” despite being Hashbrown.

I feel like, in order to cope with my newfound intense depression, I’ve begun imagining my life as a romance film again. I haven’t done that since Freshman year in California. Maybe I was coping then, too. I guess I’ll never know because the only thing I wrote about how I was feeling then was from my DearFutureMe letter: “everything seems to be alright.” Every time I’m interacting with the opposite sex, I feel as if theres a flirtatious climax (not of inherent sexual nature) on the rise. I go home and wonder about the possibilities of a committed relationship with people whom I’ve just met. I love it and hate it.

I keep throwing myself out there. Used to think that I never tried, but I’m not sure if that’s true. I think I’ve been trying for years. I tried over and over to make the friends I wanted and to obey the culture properly. Little did I know that the easiest path to that is to get into sports… but moving in that direction now is too little too late, as I’ve found. In my academics, I keep promising myself that I’ll make positive progress, but I’ve repeatedly found myself getting distracted too easily. I’ve kept trying to fight that to little avail. In romance, I haven’t successfully been in reciprocated love. I’ve had crushes and people have had crushes on me… but it never seems to work out. I tried to make something meaningful with my film, but that didn’t work out. Friendships… well, I don’t need to go on.

I’m sad. I really am. I’ll look back on this and laugh, but as of the past 3 weeks, there hasn't been a day that goes by where fantasizing about a bullet going in one end of my skull and out the other doesn’t provide a sense of comfort.

I hate myself for jumping the gun; for being presumptuous and acting too soon. I hate myself for not acting out and speaking my mind; never standing my ground and just taking the hits -- never swinging back. I hate myself for being a coward -- not having the strength to do what I want and to be what I want and to talk to who I want to talk to the way I want to talk to them. I hate that I can’t kiss anyone because I always get… well, I don’t want to get meaninglessly repetitive.

Can something go right? I feel like singing the song Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want (creatively titled) by the Smiths but every time I pray those lyrics with something in mind, I don’t get it. In fact, I end up with the opposite. I shouldn’t be surprised. There is no God sp it would be a coincidence if that prayer was answered. In all likelihood, there is someone out there chanting the same phrase where it works every time. But still… that hopeful high provides a sense of comfort, however delusional. Maybe that’s why we cherish it so much.

Mom says the first 6 weeks are the worst part. That’s 10% of my time here (if I’m even here for a full year). 1/10th of my year is going to be hell just before I move again and repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I feel like, for the most part, thoughts of self-obliteration can be lumped into two categories. The first: how would people react if I died? Would they care? Who would show up to my funeral? How would __ feel? For me, at least, these are thought experiments to figure out how much I mean to others. A bit self-indulgent, but I don’t think I’m the only one who does it. Besides, it’s my head. The second: How should I do it?

Camus once said something along the lines of "the meaning of life is literally whatever keeps you from killing yourself." Yeah, I know. Plenty of people have it worse. I could have AIDS or my dad could be dead. I know. I also know that it doesn’t matter. I don’t care if you have AIDS or if your Dad died. Nor should I. It. Does. Not. Matter. Death, even on a grand scale, Does. Not. Matter. The greatest genocide in human history has been human history.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough to deal with that.

That’s not all fair, really. I know the future isn’t all bleak. I do succeed in small things. I do really smile. There is joy that I feel -- it's real. Yes I fail, but I fail better every time. I keep going. I keep trying to kick the football. I don’t know. What I do know is this: I’m pretty tired and I’m gonna go to bed.

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