Not even the burst from my medication can save me from feeling like shit on my birthday, I guess because it's just another yearly reminder of how restricted and depressing my life is and that I'm not getting any younger.
Bless my mum, she tries so hard to make me happy. She made me a cake (it admitedly was delicious) and came round to see me, but even mum can't claim victory against the ocean of shit that gets a bit too much to handle every year when I'm reminded that nothing changed since the last year. Or the 30 years before that one. Oh well.
Maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy? As I said in the title it's almost like a tradition that I hate everything on my birthday. Oh well, actually I don't care. I'm going to bed. It's not like I'm essentially trapped in my room because I'm too anxious to go downstairs because mum's partner is here doing work in the garden. It's not like I'm literally 31 and am so terrified of human beings that I physically, let me re-iterate that bit, physically, can't overcome the anxiety of people.
That's sarcastic, by the way. It's absolutely like that. In case you didn't get the sarcasm.
Fuck. My. Life.
Hey, Shit-stine, if you're reading this shit -
FUCK YOU
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