Fuck you, Socrates.

I'm totally freaking out about living at home. Maybe I've cooped myself up for too long with my parents, but this entire situation is just giving me an anxiety attack. I feel like a bride who realized that she just married the comfortable safe guy. Life will hold no more passion for me. Fuck. I can't get away from it. The waves of anxiety keep coming, from that tight gross sensation in my chest and the tunnel vision dizzy feeling in my head; all I can do is wait them out.

My parents are fucked up. Like all of us are, but it's twice as hard since they are my parents. My genetic material comes from these people. These people brought me up. I look and acts just like them. They're not abusing drunken belligerent assholes, thank the stars. Rather, they are subtly fucked up in a way that just eats the energy out of me. They keep secrets and hide within themselves. Now I have to sit in the center of this dysfunction. Now I have to stir the pot. Now I’ll have to be the monster. Again.

I'm going to stop indulging my self-help mentality for a while. I feel like being unhealthy. I will stop trying to figure everything out. I'm going to sit around and read Being and Nothingness. I'm going to pretend that my life is meaningless so every action isn't so damn important. Even better I’m going to pretend my life is meaningless to anyone else besides myself. I’m going to be smart, liberal and better than everyone else. My unexamined life will be worth living.