"Everything I touch turns to shit. More and more, without fail, I know I affect the world around me in negative ways. I complain about the atrocities of the world and attempt to 'make it better' but I am no better. I'm just a walking ghost, sitting up way past my bedtime dwelling on all of the shitty choices I've made. Letting anxiety eat me and in return eating very little. Breathing strangely. Faced with panics. Things did not, as I had so hoped once, get better. In fact, after everything was said and done, I realized there was no purpose. It all disappeared. Things used to HAPPEN. But now all I hear is the defeaning silence of my wrongdoings' consequences. And some may say I am being dramatic, continuing to spew my sorry excuse for eloquent prose. As if I'm better. As if I'm making my problems sound glamorous or.... something worth caring about."