THIS IS GOING TO BE HIGHLY SELF-PITYING; read it or don't I don't care...

...not like I ever come back on here anyway...

Two years ago, now, I joined Furcadia. And it was glorious. Surrounded by friends and new things and fascinating changes, some light in my deathly dull world, and I stayed. I fell in love with a beautiful woman who I would eventually realize...didn't really care about me.

And the pattern was set for the next two years.

Breakup after breakup, abandoning friend after friend, falling in with bad crowds over and over, losing the innate cheerfulness that used to be mine.

My god, I look back at how happy I used to be. I was...carefree. A free spirit. I didn't care what anyone said, I didn't hate or envy or resent...I enjoyed artists for their art and didn't care that they never replied.

Somewhere in those two years, that changed. Somewhere, I became a Channer, even if I'm a member of one of the good boards. I sit and hate and cling to my hate because it keeps me alive, from finding the gun or the rope or the knife, for the pills perhaps to end myself in the manner of Monroe and so many others.

I swore to myself that if I died, I'd go out killing someone I hated.

Now...now, I realize, I could probably never go through with it. I'd be too down-crushing myself under my own despair. I could never raise the gun, whet the knife, much less the grandiose fantasies of hijacking an entire hotel to kill one talentless, worthless author.

Without the hate, two things keep me going-Girl Genius, and Zero Punctuation. The Foglios are entertaining enough that I can ignore the fact that I've never gotten a response from them, and Yahtzee Croshaw is funny enough that I can ignore the fact he hates his fanbase.

Andrew Dickman can no longer subside off the fact that I once loved Mary Ann Tigress.

Sigurdhosenfield can no longer subside off the fact that Princess Peach is hot.

bleedman can no longer...why did I even start reading his comics in the first place? They're bad fanfic with good illustrations.

So...here it is. My soul bared to the world, to whoever comes across my page and bothers to read it all the way through, begging for a torrent of "lol u suk" and "cheer up, emo kid."

But I am not fucking emo. I am legitimately depressed, if not clinically. I am not some worthless prick in expensive jeans and black hair dye who listens to My Chemical Romance.

I am a very sad kid...man...who normally loves electronica and gaming, and who just so happens to be a furry.

Times are hard, and I have no one to love.