I hate how I'm such a bad writer. I'm a failure in every way. The only time I ever feel slightly consoled about myself is when I compare myself to mental retards.

I need a car. And money. So I can get out of this place and do what I want. Some times I think I want to see more of the world. But then a simple change of my location causes me such misery that I wish I didn't exist.

I think really, existence is just something that I tolerate when I've been properly satiated.
T.S. Elliot talks about how consciousness is the full scope of time and that human beings have only a slice of it because they cannot bear very much reality.

My feet are freezing. I want out of this place.

But when I think about Elliot's full consciousness, I think that maybe death is dying into that, and I know I couldn't bear it.