This is the Work! This is the Knowledge! This is the End of man!

Hi there, so sorry to worry you. What, with the sudden onslaught of emo-jankery. I promise there's a reason--albeit not a very good one--for it.

Whenever someone asks me what I'm going to do with my life, I get depressed. Not that my life is depressing, mind you (or maybe it is, depending on how you define deviation from societal norms and what constitutes a depressing life situation). But whenever confronted with the idea of the future, the first thing I want to do is hide and wait 'til said confrontation goes far, far away. I dread these conversations like I dread doctor's visits, running into friends from highschool, writing a research paper (yeach), or even family reunions (you know how DRAMA Pilipino family reunions are). It's depressing and daunting and nauseatingly frustrating how underdeveloped my ambition is for advancement.

I'm going to be twentyfour, and I haven't graduated yet, don't have an inkling of what I would want to pursue with my English degree at all. When I finally graduate a year and a half from now, what meaningful work can I set my hands to that won't make me want to commit seppuku? I know I want to write but my lack of ambition means I never write articles for school papers to flesh out my writing portfolio with clips and accomplishments, nor do I often submit my work to be published in anything but pithy student or community publications. Can I truly call myself a "writer," even, when I blog sporadically at best and don't even put my hands to a keyboard to compose something once a day? Those who truly love their craft will still practice it when they hate it, they force themselves to continually hone and become.

Am I in a perpetual state of becoming, as a writer? No.

Colour me pathetic.

This is the first entry I've had on this shit, I think. I'm not much for blogging lately; I guess it's a side effect of just being lacklustre about everything in life. I can't get excited about anything--not my job, not school (okay, sometimes school, but it's not as if attending school is generate immediate income merely from attending and enjoying a class), not writing, not reading, not blogging. Where can I garner pleasure from? It's one endless cycle of self-hatred and self-doubt, and plowing further and further into this whirling pit of emotional crap.

I know how I got here. My constant worrying causes me to stop attempting anything remotely beneficial to my circumstances the moment I even think about it, because I'm immediately plagued with the negating feeling that trying anything will result in failure. Why try writing when I know it's going to suck? Why try searching for a job when I know I won't get it? Why even figure out something toward a career goal when I doubt I'm even suited, qualified or even ready for something like it? Please. Why have children when they're going to be brought up in a horrible world? Why why why. Why bother? Life sucks. Don't be fooled by location changes.

I'm such a mess. I wasn't always like this. But strangely, I can't think of a time when I was different.

I'm just being emotional right now. I'm sure I'll be normal again in fifteen minutes.