Words are about my only talent and I'm just okay at everything else. I know a little bit about a lot of things rather than knowing a lot about one thing. I don't put much effort into impressing anyone at all really, and I'm comfortable generally all the time. Needless to say, I'm really content, for I have a roof over my head on clothes on my shoulders; I'm doing just fine by me. I just do things as they come, and they usually work out generally in my favor. I'm happy, for things are good for me; as they mostly always have been, as I hope they always will be. //
I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our most melancholy propensities; for is there anything more stupid than to be eager to go on carrying a burden which one would gladly throw away, to loathe one’s very being and yet to hold fast, to fondle the snake that devours us until it has eaten our hearts away?
