So last night I ended with me explaining my becoming a dick. I think I'll pick up from a different place right now, and get back to that topic a little later.

When my grandmother died, I felt nothing. I did not miss her. I did not cry, or want to. I wasn't happy either. It was just a thing that happened. People think I'm cold for that, but who are they to say? Anyway, I bring this up because I thought of something. The one death that's happened that's made me kind of sad was my dog. He was a pretty big dog. Sturdy. Brown. Well, we got that dog when I was young. Very young. I think, in fact, it was before my parents got divorced. We got him when he was a puppy, and my little brother was just a baby.

As the years went by, the dog got older. He had cataracts develop in his eyes. All the time you could see them getting thicker, cloudier. Sometimes we'd call him inside, and on his way to the door he'd run into the car parked in the driveway. That made me sad. He had arthritis. He was a slow dog. It took him a while to bend his knees. You know how dogs lift their leg to pee? He stopped doing that, because it was too hard to move his legs around.

One day he ran off when we took him out. We never worried, because he always found his way home. Well, he came home late this time. He was shaking. He was vomiting everywhere. He was sick, real sick. My step dad took him to the vet, and they said he'd been poisoned. They said someone had fed him antifreeze. Who the fuck does that? Who deliberately poisons a fucking dog? He never bothered anyone.

Well, he came home after that. He'd been pretty sick, but he lived. Then he developed diabetes.

Can you believe that? I didn't even know dogs could get diabetes. My mom said it was the poisoning, said that it had messed up some of his organs. We had to get him insulin shots and everything. Insulin is expensive, man. And we had to be careful to never give him human food.

Oh man, I just remembered this. We had a couple of cats too. Sometimes the dog used to go out to the litterbox and eat it. He had the fucking worst farts from that. They could wake you if you were dead asleep. It was fucking disgusting. And of course we hated it, but we laughed about it.

On the other end of the spectrum, here's a not fun memory. We had a second dog, younger, a husky. He was just full of energy. One day he ran toward me, and I swung something toward him. He backed up and ran away. Then he turned to come back. He knew it was a game. Then the older dog walks up and I do the same thing. Instead of running around, he just stands there, and he closes his eyes and backs up a little. Like an old man flinch. Like he's saying "Not too hard, please." I felt like the fucking devil.

So one day, after we got home from a vacation, my stepdad goes and picks up the dogs from the kennel. Apparently the younger one had been eating the diabetic one's food at the kennel. So the older one was getting insulin, but no food. He couldn't stand when he got home. We had to carry him in. He just shook and couldn't stand and he just lied there and shook and whined. My stepdad put maple syrup in his mouth, to try to boost his blood sugar quickly. That didn't work. They tried giving him sugary dog treats. That didn't work. He wouldn't chew. He wouldn't swallow.

He was put down that night.

That was the first death that made me sad.

Booooooorrrrrrrriiiiiiinnnnnggg

ZzzzzZzzZzzz

My dog had pretty much the same thing, lay there for days, couldn't walk, just kept alive somehow.. He wasn't diabetic, but he had a heart murmur and his kidneys failed..
Keep up the life story OP..
Keeping me entertained

Here's something. My oldest brother was cool. I liked him. He was white, but he loved rap. He became a sort-of rapper. Once he pointed at his freckles and told me those were where god had run out of ink. My mom called him a wigger.

So if anyone is around from last night, you may recall the worst night of my life. Basically: my mom got in a drunken argument with my stepdad, she told me that my oldest brother had a different dad than me, and then she got in bed with me without pants on. So the moral of that story is, I knew that my oldest brother had a different dad. My other two brothers did not know that. I also knew because once he played on of his rap songs for my mom, and it was about how he was a sad little kid with no dad and his mom was looking for a new man or some such thing. So I knew.

One day, visiting my dad, he asked me and my brothers if we knew that. I said yes. My brothers said no. My dad never asked how I knew, which is good because I wouldn't have known what to tell him. So then he explained to my other brothers that yes, my mom had been trying to find love and a family and settle down because she thought that's what she needed. The guy walked out and she was left with my oldest brother. So technically, he was our half brother. I did not consider him this. In my mind, nothing had changed. In my mind, he was still my brother, who I was raised with all my life.

My brothers viewed it differently. They both, from that point on, talked about their half-brother instead of their brother. The guy was pretty popular at our school, so we would get asked sometimes "Oh, are you that guy's brother?" To which my brothers would respond "Half-brother." That made me angry. That made me upset. It was like they thought something had changed when it hadn't. It was like they viewed him differently even though he was the same. I wished I could tell them that, but what was I going to do, be a fag and tell them what they should and shouldn't do?

Now I'm thinking about my family. Allow me this post to briefly explain why I didn't like some of the people I live with before we move on.

Younger brother: He was a smug asshole. He was one of those atheists that acts like he's smarter than everyone else because he doesn't believe in god. He was one of those people who looks up facts on google so that he can vomit them up later and our mom would be impressed that he knew so much. As if memorizing a bunch of useless shit was fucking impressive. Also, he used the word "factoid" a lot. Man, fuck that guy.

Older but not oldest brother: He was one of those emos or goths or whatever you call them. He and his friends would dress in black and wear dog collars and shit. Speaking of which, I thought those people were supposed to be sad. They were all hugs and bisexuality from what I saw. And he acted like a fucking child.

Oldest brother: Actually liked him. Cool guy. Bought me and my friends alcohol in high school.

Mom: She was crazy sometimes. She would burst into tears at the dumbest shit. Plus, her and my stepdad were SO tolerant and progressive. By that I mean, they may have been tolerant and progressive, and they may have thought it was for a good reason, but it was really just so they could show off how fucking tolerant and progressive they were. They asked us often if we were gay just so they could say "Because we would be completely fine with that. Homosexuality is a life choice and we respect it."

Stepdad: Pretty much the same as my mom. He just wanted someone to tell him what to do, that was my mom.

Moving on.

tell me everything in more detail

I forgot about this. Growing up, I was like the hulk. Sort of. I repressed my emotions, right? The only time I ever expressed them was in private. As it turns out, this is not quite the best way to deal with your feelings. I was often sad, I just had to hide it, because if I didn't, I knew that there was something wrong with me. The only emotion I ever dealt with was anger. That was not a good thing. Sometimes I would just get so mad, and I would feel it behind my face. Do you know what I mean when I say that? Like how sometimes, you know you're going to cry, and you can feel it welling up behind your face. That was my anger. It just boiled back there, feeling all rotten and nasty and red.

So there were the times and it would be too much for me to decide to hide. This was usually at home. One of my brothers would do something and I would just get so mad, and I would shout or hit them or throw things and just keep doing it until the feeling is gone. They knew it and they mocked me, they said it was low blood sugar and then I just wanted to fucking choke them. That thought popped up a lot. I felt like I could quell the feeling by hurting someone with my hands. I couldn't imagine why anyone would kill people with a gun. It seemed like doing it with your hands would feel much more satisfying. Choking them, or just punching them over and over.

The feeling behind my face was like a mixture of shame and sadness. I feel something like it now, but I don't want to hurt anyone. I'm just sad and ashamed, I suppose.

I'm sorry, I need to calm down for a second. I'm going to go out for a smoke and then maybe eat something. I'll be back in 30 minutes I suppose.

bump for teh original pposter :)

Christ, I took almost an hour. I apologize for that. Hey, I think I just fixed my space bar. A friend spilled soda on it a while back and it was hard to press down. Now it works fine. So there's that. Anyway, moving on!

>visit /r9k/
>see this thread
>that tree looks familiar
>realize I made it myself

Just as I had resigned myself to an unfinished story, too!

So now we're going back to how I became a bad guy. See, at some point in high school, something changed. I didn't lack all emotions. To be honest, though, I was mostly sad all the time. I was depressed, and at some point I started contemplating suicide as an actual option. It's not that I wanted to hurt myself, that aspect seemed wholly unpleasant. However, it did seem like an easy thing to do, to just find a way to kill myself. Then I'd never have to deal with college, with jobs, with relationships, with anything. I could find out what came after death. It would be like an adventure. That's about when I realized I might have a problem.

I kind of wanted to see a therapist. I wanted to just say everything that I was feeling and get some fucking feedback. There was no way I was telling my family, or my friends. But there was no way I was asking for a therapist either. I would've been too ashamed and embarrassed. My mom and stepdad thought therapy was a crock of shit, and that therapists were just people that took your money. They voiced this opinion often enough that I knew: if I went to therapy, they would be upset and disappointed. I couldn't do that.

So I found a different form of therapy. It worked quite well sometimes, and my friends enjoyed it with me. We started committing crimes. We would break things, vandalize, steal. It helped relieve the stress. It was a rush. It took my mind off the anger and depression. I could justify my actions all day. I don't know why my friends did it, if they were seeking thrills or distraction, or they were just destructive. We never talked about it. Eventually I became too empathetic for it, I always felt bad knowing someone else had to clean up after us.

>>1378300
Good to see you back, friend. Thank you for the tree, by the way.

I never thought I'd smoke pot. Or cigarettes. Or drink heavily. Growing up, I remember all those times I swore to teachers and parents and friends that I would never do drugs, and never commit crimes, and always be as nice as I could to others. Even in the beginning of high school, I stuck to those principles. I remember a girl told me once that I would try pot, that everyone tries pot in high school. I laughed at her. I thought she was dumb, because I knew I would never go back on my promises.

I broke all of my fucking promises, guys. And fuck, I'm not even sure I broke them for a good reason. Some friends and I just really wanted to smoke. We didn't know how being high would be, but I for one just really wanted smoke in my lungs. I wanted to be self destructive for once. I wanted to stop being so fucking careful. This was going to be the first law that I broke. I wanted to break my fucking boundaries. So I did.

You know what sucks about starting to smoke in winter? You leave footprints in the snow.

Sure, I got caught a few times. But it was worth it. Being high, being drunk, being buzzed from a cigarette, it was all the same. I just wanted to feel different. I wanted to be in a new state of mind. More than anything, I wanted to not be sober. I never told my friends that. At first it was just because I assumed they felt the same. After a while I realized I wasn't telling them because I thought they'd react poorly. They'd think I was an addict or something. I hated when people thought things about me. I could not have that. So I just never told them why I did these things. I just did them.

>>1378402
>I broke all of my fucking promises
I know that feel all too well.

So I kept smoking marijuana. After a while I took up cigarettes. After a while I took up drinking. It was all social stuff, I would only do it with friends. Except cigarettes. I smoked those whenever my parents weren't around. I even tried salvia a few times. It was alright. You know what the best part was, though? Relinquishing control. It's not the same as relinquishing responsibility, but it's similar enough for me. On salvia I couldn't control what I was doing, what I was seeing. Things just happened, and I went with it, and that was great.

Almost every time I got together with my friends at this point, we got very high or very drunk or both. When this happened I would smoke a lot more cigarettes than usual. When I started smoking, I would smoke one cigarette a day, if that. At some point, it got to where I was knocking out 4 or 5 an hour. Every weekend one or two of my close friends would express concern at seeing me pull out my 3rd or 4th cigarette, or chain smoking. They told me I would get addicted. I told them that was not going to happen, and I lit another cigarette and I took another drink from the half gallon of shitty vodka we always seemed to have around when night fell.

After a while cigarettes weren't even pleasant. After my 5th or 6th in a night, I would feel like shit. I would just have another because my friends were, or because I fucking felt like it. That was shitty. However, my first cigarette after like 6 hours of not having one...that was heavenly. I started assigning purposes to them so that my friends didn't think I just wanted a cigarette. I would go out after having a bowl of weed as a "celebration" cig. I would go out after waking up as a "wake up" cig. I would go out after drinking too much as a "sober up" cig. You get the idea. There were a lot of cigs.

> implying i'm going to read all of this shit

So you're kind of getting the picture, right? I always thought of myself as a nice guy, not even realize I was building up a reputation as a druggie. Not being aware of that, I started piling on more things for people to think of me.

First off, I made fun of retards. I never meant it in meanness, and I never did it to their faces. But when I was with my friends, at lunch, or out getting drunk, I would crack jokes about them. Mostly the three most retarded kids we knew: Smushed Face, The Tickler, and Dolly Boy. Yeah, we may have also given them nick names.

The tickler was hilarious. He always approached people and just listened to their conversations. And tried to tickle them. And tried to give them neck rubs. And tried to inflate the latex glove he was wearing, so all the time you'd see him walking around with his mouth pressed up against his wrist.

Never really knew much about smushed face, except that he had a kind of smushed face. Also his eyes freaked me out.

Dolly boy was the king though. He was strapped to this dolly, right? He was wheeled around on a fucking dolly. We always thought it was because he couldn't walk. Judging from his looks, we thought he had a lifespan of like 17. We thought he was fragile. Apparently not. As it turned out, he was strapped to the dolly because if he was let loose, he would attack anything with a heartbeat. He was a violent motherfucker. We found this out quickly. See, there were 2 special ed rooms. 1 was normal. They watched movies and played uno and shit. One was dolly boy's. He and one other person would sit in there, with all the lights turned off. The other person was just there to make sure dolly boy stayed alive I guess. He was always trying to break out. He'd manage to get his dolly over to the door, but he couldn't grab the handle because he was strapped down. So what he did was bang his dolly on the door over and over and shout. Sometimes he would manage to get out, then realize he couldn't function in the hallway. Then he'd bang on the door some more, but no one would let him back in.

We thought these guys were fucking hilarious. People thought I was a fucking dick for making jokes.

Now that I think about it, I remember one reason for my teen depression. I was still (as had always been the case) practically addicted to sexual things. I masturbated probably 4 or 5 times a week. I didn't actually lok up porn that often. I just masturbated to things I imagined. The ridiculously hot girls in my school, for instance. Or, on occasion, my mom. Or my neighbor. Or, let's be honest, any female who wasn't fat as fuck. And once or twice...christ I'm glad I'm anonymous...my younger brother.

I'll get to that in a moment.

OP
LOVING THE STORY
KEEP GOING

im so glad you're back OP.
never waited this long for a thread before

Pretty much any pretty woman I spoke to, I wanted to fuck. I assume that's the case for most people. Granted, this included my mother sometimes, but hey, why not? There was this game I played, right? I enjoyed when my mother was turned around, because she often wore jeans that squeezed her ass. I wanted to grab it so fucking bad. It seemed like the greatest feeling in the world would be to rub my hand along a woman's (especially my mother's) tight jeans. So I played this game, where when she was turned around and I was close by, I would see how close I could get my hand to her ass without actually touching it. I stopped playing because once I actually touched her ass. She didn't say anything, but I wasn't going to risk it again. It did not help relieve my desire when I learned that my mother was bisexual, and had made out with women while married to my stepdad. In our house. In our basement.

So a little Oedipus complex MAY have had SOMETHING to do with me resenting myself and getting depressed.

Hurry up, OediPus.
Greece'll rise and fall again by the time you're finished.

Then comes a weirder part. There was a period of time when I may have been attracted to my younger brother. The smug atheist one. I'm not sure if I was gay for a while or just ridiculously horny and desperate, but that happened. I guess it started when I was a kid. See, Ever since I was young, I've always been addicted to sexual stuff. When I was a toddler I tried to french kiss my mom. When I was 5 or so I tried to fuck my little brother. He became uncomfortable and told me to stop, and I did, but the thought of it has stuck with me ever since. I've wondered if he remembers it as well.

Anywho, so when I was...I guess this was early high school, so he was in late middle school. That's when things got kind of sexual between us. I don't remember how it started, but at my dad's, when everyone was asleep but us, we would see how close we could come to open mouth kissing without actually kissing. The answer: fucking close. So close that sometimes our lips brushed, and we would hold our breath, and after a moment pull away. Sometimes we would dry hump. I swear, I could've fucked him if I wanted to. And I did, but I would've been ashamed and disgusted afterwards. We never talked about it during the day.

So yeah, those are some sex things that kind of depressed me and added to my mental fuckery.

THIS is why I say to type out everything you're going to say before starting a thread, fuck's sake.

So let me tell you something I'm deeply ashamed of, and then I'll move on to how, for a while, I may have been just slightly crazy.

In either my junior or senior year of high school, this happened. My friends and I, we were just chilling in the hallway after lunch, talking, and one of them says "You know what we should do? Spit on a black person." We laughed. I thought he was kidding. But the next time a black guy walked by, he spit on him. He SPIT on him. I was disgusted. And horrified. I hoped this guy would kick the shit out of my friend. But he didn't. I don't know if he didn't notice (the spit was on his back) or if he didn't want to fight a group, but he just kept walking. And I didn't say anything. And since then, I've been ashamed. But what was I supposed to do? Say "Hey, apologize!" Say "That's not very nice!" No. No way. I was not some kind of fag who did that shit. Christ.

>>1379225

Lol, I remember that being in a Greentext thread.

So once upon a time I may have been slightly iffy in the head.

First off, let's talk about nature. I, at some point, found a peaceful way to deal with my depression. I looked at everything. I realized that my whole life, I'd never really looked at anything. I always saw people and places as background. Never as real things. People may as well have been cardboard cutouts. The sky may as well have been the ceiling painted blue. One day I looked around me and everything just sort of...shifted. I realized that people had motivations and emotions and reasons for everything. I realized that even the people I didn't like, even the people I passed in the aisle at Target, even Dolly boy, they all had feelings and thoughts just like me. I was no more important than them. And the sky! Christ, the sky! And the trees! It was all so beautiful! Have you ever noticed how fucking blue the sky is? How white the clouds are? I saw beauty and perfection that I thought only existed in paintings.

After I embraced the beauty in everything, I thought pictures were a tragedy. Anyone with a camera was committing an act that was just...wrong. They were taking a moment, a perfect, one of a kind, beautiful moment, and they were capturing it. Imprisoning it in that one frame. After that, it lost its uniqueness. It was just another fucking picture to be bought and sold and traded and lost and thrown away. I was very upset, I don't know if you can tell. In the same way, I thought nonfiction writing was a curse. It's all like binding an event to one thing, so all you see of that event is the one thing instead of all the perspectives. I think perspective is important. Don't you? That's why I gave you every side of the story for my parents divorce. You needed to see that no one person was completely wrong or right. No one ever is.

And shit, then I just thought things that I should not have thought. I came here for advice quite some time ago, and even you guys thought I was speaking nonsense.

Once in a while, I still committed crimes. I vandalized and I destroyed things. I did things that people would notice. I never got the balls to break into a house, but I wanted to so badly. See...I thought I was doing a good thing. I thought I was doing everyone a favor. I thought that by breaking a window of a store, or spraypainting a dick on a wall, I was doing some good for the world. I thought that I could make one day stand out among the hundreds of days that were exactly the same. I thought I could give one day meaning in an ocean of sameness. Even if the meaning was bad, even if the day stood out because of something bad, that was still good. That was still their life diverging a little from what they were doing.

I didn't imagine that I was "breaking" things, not really. I thought of it as "changing" them. Evolving them. Transcending them. I made them different than they were the day before and the day before and the hundreds of days before.

For a while, I legitimately believed that stuff. I don't think I do anymore. If I do, I haven't acted on it.

I'm starting to think I latch onto my past too much is my problem. I need to stop it and live in the present but man how can I do that when it's so easy to think about things that have already happened? There's no planning or disappointment involved in the past, because you already know the outcome. Whatever.

You know what's odd? I care about how I look, but not about my overall health. I try to watch what I eat, and exercise fairly regularly, because I want to look alright, but I still smoke and drink and don't care how it effects me. Getting diagnosed with cancer would at least distract me from constantly looking at the past. Any change is better than stagnation, I guess.

You know what's odd? Sometimes I think, if I were going to commit suicide, this whole story would be my letter. But I think I'd want it destroyed, so no one could read. That'd be fucking embarrassing.

Wow this is such a great story! I am so glad we have people like you, OP.

You know, your cells die over time. They get replaced by new ones. No part of your body is the same as it used to be. Every so often you're like a new person. A new body. But you're the same on the inside. You feel the same. You think the same. It just happens, and you hate yourself for it. Or maybe that's just me. I don't know.

When I was young, I tried not to get excited about things. When I was excited about things, my mom accused me of obsessing over them. That hurt my feelings pretty bad. Once I learned how to make a bird feeder out of a milk jug. I asked my mom if she'd help me make it and she said yes. I was really excited about it. I spent all day wanting to build it, and my mom said I was obsessing. That hurt my feelings. I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I just stopped. I didn't ask her again. I never made the bird feeder. I want to go make one now. But I won't. Of course I won't.

My parents both had depression. They took pills for it. I don't know if that's heritable, but I never asked them.

I'm reading.
I don't know why, but I find this interesting.

>>1379600
wut. please let this be a tripcode stealer
not OP samefagging
;_;

>>1379600
I can't tell if you left the OP name on from another thread or if you're making fun of me. I hate when people compliment me, because I'm always afraid to think they're telling the truth in case I find out they're lying later. It's always better to just assume they're lying to you.

I was fat at the start of high school. 200 something. I lost weight at some point. 160 or so by the end. My mom thought I was doing hard drugs. I felt good about myself.

I don't want to hate my mom, but I think I do.

I think mean people and mean animals live longer. We had 2 cats and the one we didn't like lived for fucking ever. The cool one got a cyst in his airway and over time was getting less and less air and when it came down to it, it was either put him down or let him slowly slowly suffocate.

I think I'm having a panic attack or something.

I hated that my mom and stepdad were nurses because they always assigned some fucking medical reason to anything that FUCKING happened. They never thought I was just fucking SAD.

I think I'm blaming everyone for myself. I think I'm going to cry shortly.

I wanted to be a super villain toward the end of high school. I had it figured out. Villains aren't really bad guys. Haven't you noticed they never win? They just want to give the good guys a reason to better themselves. They just want to provide enough of a challenge that the good guys become better guys. They know they don't have what it takes to be good guys, so they do what they can, what they know, to improve the good guys. It's their way of helping. They just don't know any other way.

I wanted to run around in a crazy outfit and rob places and break shit and I dunno. I just hoped that people would try to stop me. I could let them win. I could turn them into heroes. Wouldn't that be great? Wouldn't that be grand?

I thought so.

Maybe I still do. I'm a bit iffy on what I actually believe.

Man my life seems so normal and boring compared to others. I was just a normal kid, had friends in school, did really well with my classes, had a few girlfriends and here I am in university maintaining that.

Anyways OP, please continue this shit is interesting as fuck.

OP, how old are you now?

moot'sbrocks

I remember the dumbest shit.

I remember in 2nd grade I liked this girl Emily and one day I spelled her initials with cheerio's and my teacher told me to stop playing with my food

I remember a kid named Anthony was handcuffed to a chair in 2nd grade

I remember a camel was painted on the wall of the cafeteria in 2nd grade. I remember how the cafeteria smelled.

My brain is so full of shit and I don't know what to do with it and I'm sorry but I have to leave it somewhere.

I remember in 2nd grade I was given a little plant in a Styrofoam cup by my teacher. I accidentally watered it too much and was told it was going to die. I couldn't stop fucking crying. I still have that fucking plant because fuck you it did NOT die I can take care of my own shit.

I remember caring more about the possibility of that plant dying than my Granny actually dying.

>>1379883
inb4 OP commits suicide.

Here are 2 things that mattered to me a lot in my childhood.

1: The red cushions.
See, we had this sofa with 2 cushions. They were red. Kind of rough fabric. Not bright red, either. Dull. Dark. Well the point is, we never left them on the sofa. We picked them up and held them in front of us (my brothers and I) and we would sumo. We would start at opposite ends of the room and charge right at each other. We would slam into each other and try to knock the other down. I remember the feel of those cushions. I remember those fucking cushions.

Thing is, one night when I was...I don't know, I was in high school. My mom or my little brother mentioned the cushion and I had no idea what he was talking about. He gave a little more detail, and suddenly I remembered. Suddenly I remembered everything about them. I remembered sumo-ing, I remembered jumping on them, I remembered how they felt on my face when I fell on the floor with them. I started giggling. I couldn't help it. Right at the dinner table, I laughed until there were tears in my eyes. Then I just cried. I didn't know why, I just started crying and I couldn't fucking stop.

How fucking embarrassing.

Now we're at numero two-o
2: Chris.
When I was but a lad (some time before 2nd or 3rd grade), we had this doll. The doll was life sized (for a child). It was probably the size of me. My older brother and I shared a room, shared bunk beds, and shared the doll. The doll's name was Chris.

Chris wore overalls with a red shirt on underneath. Chris had red hair that stuck out everywhere, and he wore a hat over it. Chris was fucking creepy. He sat next to the door of my bedroom, staring straight ahead. All day and all fucking night, neither of us ever moved him. He just sat there. And he watched.

I grew older. I forgot about Chris. One day at dinner, again some time in high school, Chris gets brought up. I remember suddenly, and I say "Oh, the big doll?" My mom and brother are confused. They say there was never a big doll. They say Chris was mine and my brother's imaginary friend. I think of Chris just sitting there by the doorway. Just sitting there and staring. And I say, "Well if Chris was imaginary, then what was the big doll?" And again they say there was never a big doll. And I know they're telling the truth. But in my head I can see this for real doll. Suddenly I'm faced with two absolute truths that contradict each other.

So then, there I was again, for no reason, I could identify, uncontrollably laughing and crying at the dinner table.

I just realized that might've been what they call "hysterical."

I feel like we're coming to a close soon, fellas. How would you like me to wrap this up? What is it there is left that you don't know about me? Or shall I just continue my rambling for another few minutes?

>>1380129
Ramble. Do it. :3

Is it safe to assume you're a virgin, OP?

Any stories of high school heartbreak?

>>1380150
Alright, well...

The farther I got into high school the more I realized it was a bunch of shit. The only reason I tried for good grades was because that was what was expected of me. Because if I did poorly, I'd be punished. I didn't do it because I wanted to learn, or because it made me feel good. I did it for other people. Fuck that. The only reason to even take a class is so you can do well and then take the next class, where you do well and then take the next class, where you do well and take the next class and then none of it even relates to your job. My Chemistry teacher bitched at me constantly, asking why would I take chemistry if I wasn't interested. I took it because I had to, because it was the next class, because I don't know it was expected of me. I do manual labor for a living, I didn't need chemistry or calculus.

And that's how I ended up with the reputation I had. People thought I was a cold-hearted dick. A slacker. A druggie. People thought I was all the things that stood out instead of all the things put together. People judge pretty quickly.

Maybe that's part of this. Maybe it's all about perspective. I'm the man you're going to pass on the street. I'm not just background. I'm not a cardboard cutout. I'm a man with a past that I just poured out for the first time to complete strangers. I'm a man who cries sometimes when he's alone. I'm a man that gets drunk just so he doesn't have to be sober, and who smokes for god knows why. I'm a man who lives in the past far too much and is trying to stop it.

I think I need a victory cig now. Mission accomplished. Unless anyone has questions, which I'll probably answer.

>>1380234
Christ, I totally forgot about that. I don't think about relationships a lot. I'm horrified at the prospect of having to meet her family, to be honest. Yes, I'm a virgin. I had a girlfriend once when I was still in school. It was an awkward experience. We talked and shared interests, but I think we each only wanted to be in a relationship so we could say we were in a relationship. It came to a mutual close after a couple of months. It was never brought up again.

OP, these experiences you went through.. are of similar moulds to mine but with different consequences.

>>1380389
Feel free to share. I expect to see some part of your story when I come back from my cigarette

>>1379883
holy shit OP you're fucking retarded
How many mental illnesses do you have again?

>>1378509
>I would go out after having a bowl of weed as a "celebration" cig. I would go out after waking up as a "wake up" cig. I would go out after drinking too much as a "sober up" cig.
That sounds a lot like someone I know.

>Or, on occasion, my mom.
Gross.
>And once or twice...christ I'm glad I'm anonymous...my younger brother.
Really gross.

Goddamit OP I have the same problem with (dare I say being meek) and being overly empathetic.

>>1381684
(continued)
I don't even know where to start. I think this is the reason I keep coming to /r9k/, because I want to read tragic stories and tell myself that life is unfair.

I'm not going to follow the tone of OP though.

If the entire world knew every detail about my life they could create account after account of how much of an awful person I am and how I deserve to burn in the most terrible part of hell; but it's good to know that theirs would just be some meaningless interpretation of exactly what happened in my life, and they could never judge me. It's good to feel that I'm not to blame for so many of the things I feel so awful about. I'm a good person. I'm a "nice guy" and I'm proud, and the people who can't deal with that need to get their head checked.