I work. And I think about work, and I freak out about work, and I think about how much I think about work, and I freak out about how much I think about how much I think about work, and I think about how freaked out I get about how much I think about how much I think about work.

That made me happy. That was my Anchor.

I didn't want to wake up. I was having a much better time asleep. And that's really sad.

I wanted to tell people, "My depression is acting up today" as an excuse for not seeing them, but I never managed to pull it off.

I can't eat and I can't sleep. I'm not doing well in terms of being a functional human, you know?

What am I always going to do? I'm going to go home and freak out.I'm going to sit with my family and try not to talk about myself and what's wrong. Im going to try and eat. Then I'm going to try and sleep. I dread it. I can't eat and I can't sleep. I'm not doing well in terms of being a functional human, you know?

I found myself jealous of the people who wrote the books. They were dead and they were still taking up my time. Who did they think they were?