One of the few things I’m generally fortunate in is that I don’t get lonely. I used to, much like most other people. But after a few really bad relationships and a lot of introspection, I’ve more or less cured myself of it, at least as a state of mind. I still get lonely on occasion, usually revolving around something that I already find depressing.
Today (or rather, yesterday) was my birthday, the 17th of May. I was sick. This bothers me more than I can put into words, as I am already depressed on my birthdays. The last thing I needed was to be further isolated by illness. These things conspired to remind me what loneliness feels like. I deeply resent this. I don’t like feeling lonely. I don’t like missing people. I have enough problems without the further distraction of romantic entanglements.
With any luck, sleep will cure both of these maladies, the one in my lungs and the one in my mind. Here upon this futon I cross my fingers and hope for a less depressing state of affairs tomorrow. For the record, you the reader have no idea how self-conscious I get when I’m this misanthropic. Thanks for sticking with me. Wish me good health on my birthday. I have a lot of needs lately, but this is the one that’d be most immediately beneficial. I have shit to do.