I build it up to get it knocked down. I'm treading water. Not drowning, not swimming. Watching everyone else disappear on the horizon like freighters on Lake Huron while I fight the weeds around my legs. And I know, I know, that the slightest look from her can make it all go away. That the cloud can disperse, that I can be rooted, anchored to this world I'm spinning off of at terminal velocity.

Is that bad? That someone has this control. That I'm owned. That I can't make things better for myself. That I need someone to flick the switch, to tell me I exist "for a reason", that there's a place for me, that I'm great, that the world is lucky to have me.

And how much worse is it that I can't believe her? That I have to watch her say the most beautiful things and still take them with a grain of salt? I hate this filter everything has to slide through to get in my brain. The truth is putty. It's taffy. I love playing with it.

And, still, I'm getting ready to go drift through the same summer air currents, press my tired legs against cold porch concrete, nylon hammock, cotton blanket. Cushioning, stifling, stultifying.

There's a bunch of paradoxes I can't understand about myself. Knots that keep me so constricted, but can't be untied. I want to be a part of something, but I simultaneously despise any kind of organization, with their fucking name-tags, people saying, "resume builder!", and hours sheets. I want to be something great, but I can give it all up.

I need to decide for what and why I want to live.

My girlfriend is going away for awhile. But it's okay, we'll talk once a week, and I'll bum a ride off my parents to drive me half-way to some fucking diner to meet her for coffee.

I couldn't be more miserable.

Back to the same god damn, mother fucking, sorry-assed, piece-of-shit job. I'm the only person who can't make things better for himself. Everyone else can FIND things. People, scholarships, money, jobs. I sit with my thumb up my ass, blind to the world, groping my way through life.

Just when I think I could fade out, cease to exist, I find that I suddenly love life, more than anyone else. I'm an accordion, I'm a jump-rope, I'm a roller coaster, I'm a wave, I'm a string vibration, I'm a yo-yo, I'm a ship hull, I'm the sun, I'm a thermometer, I'm a volcano.

I'd rather be blind, deaf, and dumb than mediocre. I'd rather just succumb, just beat my brains out with alcohol and drugs, than spend my life like a dog trying to walk on two legs.

I need to leave and be alone. I need 5000 dollars to fall into my lap, and then I need to get out of here.

I have done nothing. I've met no one. I've written nothing. I've created nothing. I've said nothing. I'm treading water.

I fucking hate this school, too. I hate them all. They're a scam, a callous business, a piece of this world.

I hate this fucking post. It's terrible. Anyone could have written it. It's self-indulgent, it's angsty. It's seventeen-years-old. It's juvenile, it's puerile, it's pointless, it's selfish, it's ignorant, it's whiny, it's lazy, it's disgusting.

I think I've been depressed for awhile. I ignored it. I just thought I was weak (not saying I'm not). But I've been crushed like this before.

I'm at the bottom of a valley and the sky is black. The mountains are infinite and the land is barren. Guess I'll just stay for three more fucking years.

Coming here was a mistake. I lost a year. Even more, I lost a degree. I'm repeating things, I'm learning NOTHING. I'm learning not to think for myself, not to make decisions, because I'm always so fucking wrong.

I'm looking at a picture of me right now. I'm smiling. I want to vomit. As if the party could coax some happiness out of me? As if that was "what I needed"? I could sit here in this room for the rest of my life.

Something is wired wrong. Which wire can I cut?

And all this sadness, it's just not productive. It'll wrench my mind away from the things that could save it, it will keep it hopelessly dithering in my fear. I'll just keep sitting here, shaking at myself, trembling out of fear and rage.

Can I just have my fucking office job now? Can I just start dressing business-casual? Can I just start living for the water cooler chats? Can I just stare at a screen, make enough money to live, and then go home and be away from everyone and everything? Can I just be separate, at last?

Every time I laugh, I want to cut my vocal cords out. I would laugh. I have nothing to lose, I'm fucking daft. Those are the people who laugh like I do. The one's who are just too depressed to stop. Because what happens then? Well, it's not very funny.

How much money do I have to waste on myself? Enough to get professional help? Enough to go do something? To get an exciting internship? I'd burn it. I'll starve. I don't care.

How far can I go? Tell me, I'll go.

The more people I bring in, the more people I hurt. They're cockle burs. They cling to me, only to be deposited in a big pile of shit. Oh, I'm real good at latching them. I'm so fucking funny, and charming, and playful, and fun. You should see them fall. They jump right on to my sleeve.

I can't talk to anyone. They all remind me of things I hate to much. Home, this school, my past self, my future self. Being human has been hard.

Fuck this record. I knew "The Bends" would make me do this.