the age old question.

a couple of days ago, i moved my desk out from the wall and set my chair behind it. this means there will be a new set up for my youtube videos. begone, couch that made my hips hurt so badly i couldn’t move for days! avast!

but as i sit here sobbing my eyes out, with a clear view of the kitchen where my wife makes coffee, i have to reflect on whether things really do ever change. i mean, have i changed? i made an error, and when someone called me out on it, i burst into tears and i’ve been crying for about 20 minutes. what the hell, dude.

i want to tell myself to grow up, because i should be over this shit by now, but it seems like my rejection-sensitive dysphoria loves acting a mess. i know logically it’s because i haven’t gone to therapy in a while and my old anxieties are creeping back in, but it doesn’t make the anger any less real. it doesn’t make the sadness go away.

i’ve been seeing therapists since 2013, so 10 years now. it will be my 10 year therapiversary in august. in 2014, i started on medication, which changed my life. my therapists all said the same thing: medication doesn’t fix your problems. you still need therapy. and it’s like, brah, i know, shut up, fuck. and i DO know. i know this. i know this so well. the irritation i feel at having to remind myself of this for the last 10 years compounds every year. and yet i never learn. i never remember until i’m bawling my eyes out and throwing things.

i feel like a failure. realistically i know i’m just, in the words of jason mendoza, pre-successful, but i feel like i’ve tried and failed at so many things that i should just give up completely. i feel like this with each one, but somehow i never do. i never give up completely. no matter how many mistakes i make i am never satisfied with living an ordinary life.

AND THAT’S THE POINT! it’s not about NOT making mistakes. it’s not about having an easy life. it’s about making mistakes and overcoming all the shit garbage stupid crap that you go through to become extraordinary. and i do believe i’m extraordinary. and i do believe it’s okay to cry every once in a while. and i do believe it’s important, necessary, and — i can’t think of another word, so insert one yourself — to make mistakes. but when i get like this, it’s so easy to beat myself up and say, “you’re an awful piece of shit and you should just kill yourself.” it’s so easy. but then i do something fun and get over and get on with my life.

while it would be easy to say my life is shit garbage and everything sucks and i should kill myself and nothing ever gets better, none of that is true.

i’m looking at my perfect beautiful hot wife who has THEE most perfect fat ass i’ve ever seen, and she’s washing dishes in the kitchen and making a nice home for us. i can’t possibly believe that my life hasn’t improved because she’s the proof! she’s right there! my gorgeous kitten! my lovely sweet cupcake! she’s right there! and she loves me! i’m the most special person in the whole fucking world BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME.

but i can’t stop crying. i have a lesson in half an hour and i need the money, especially since i was almost fired and my hours have been reduced because of… some reason? but i can’t possibly turn up to my lesson bawling my dick off. i don’t know what to do. another difficult choice i have to make in a long line of difficult choices. they never stop. but i stay silly :3

at the end of every email i want to include a tip for the people in poverty reading my newsletter and paying attention to my youtube channel. i don’t know if they will even be beneficial.

my tip today is: dealing with roaches using bug bombs. in the last apartment i rented before i met my wife, there was a roach infestation under the house. i had a back deck i could sit at and whenever i’d be out there i could see them under the house. i told the owner and the real estate about this constantly. i would get roaches in my apartment every night, around 11pm for some reason, attacking me every time i got of bed. it got so bad that i made myself go to sleep before 11pm just so i wouldn’t see them.

then the owner (who would illegally turn up at the house whenever he wanted) suggested bug bombs. he actually gave me one, which i left sitting on my counter for months because i was so angry that he refused to get rid of the roaches.

but then one day i thought, “fuck it.” this shit wasn’t getting any better. so i put on one of the bug bombs and went to the library. after that, i didn’t see a roach for three months. when they came back, i put another one on. this happened about 4 or 5 times, and it saved me during the heart of summer. granted, my place was disgusting because i never cleaned it, but also it was disgusting before i arrived.

renting is the most horrid experience i can imagine. everything that goes along with it, including dealing with agents, paying rent, and having to look after someone else’s property, is dehumanising and awful. i can’t wait to own my own house, hopefully in spain. i have all these ideas of where we could live and what places to visit, but i don’t know how many of them will come to fruition. we’ll see.

i forgot the question. it’s “am i helping people?” yet to be seen.