Listening to: The Call - Backstreet Boys
I hate thinking about his. What's the point? Life. I have such a good life. I have such a good life, and I spend so much time being angry and feeling like shit, and feeling fat, and there are people who can't afford food. What is that? Food goes to waste in my house, and I won't eat it because I don't like it. What is that? That's shitty. That. is. Shitty.
I sit here on my $500 laptop, with my $500 dollar iPod, and my purse, and my comics, and my books, and my music, and my chocolate milk, in my nice house, and what's the point? What's the point? Does it make me happy? Do I ascribe a deeper meaning to music and the internet and all my stuff so I don't feel guilty about having it?
So what happens when I do feel guilty? Because I do. A lot. But what can I do? Is it my fault that I was born into a family like this? Do I say that just to shift the blame from my shoulders? Can I blame God, just so I don't feel like this?
What can I do? Nothing. I can't do a thing. I could give up all my possessions, and all my money, and move to Africa, and help orphans, and what will it do? There will still be orphans. There will still be hunger, there will still be war, there will still be hurt. What will it do? Will doing that make me happy? No.
Does it matter if I'm happy? Even bigger question. To me it matters. Doesn't matter as much to anyone else, except my friends and family. But that's just a little circle. Everybody wants someone else to be happy. Doesn't that connect us all somehow? Shouldn't everyone want everyone else happy?
I don't know, I'm rambling. But the fighting. The petty, petty fighting. About what? Nothing. Nothing.
I don't know. Thinking like this depresses me.
I don't like to do it very often.