Death

David Foster Wallace, a writer of immense intellgence and learning struggled with depression for years. He finally killed himself. You are no stranger with the black dog. You struggled with the beast for the long time. You emerged triumphant, with tremendous costs.

This morning, you meditated on the subject of rejection and anger, two contributing causes of your depression. You now laugh at your emotional and social immaturity which were products of social isolation and idealism. The more you interact with human animals, the more you realize life is just a fucking game of power and pretense. The the ultimate objective of the game is to stay alive and enjoy whatever that brings you peace and a sense of fulfillment, which in your case are the acquisition of knowledge and self-expression through words. Concepts like love and friendship are noble but fraught with dangers and disappointments. You finally accepted Laura's rejection as well as the rejections of others, just ax you yourself have rejected many others. Happiness must be internally generated, not externally induced. Meanwhile, you try to make and save money.

Be calm at all times. Assholes and douche bags are galore. Humans are just another kind of animals, your potential biggest sources of annoyance and danger. Deal with them with guile and firmness. Don't get yourself hurt. Be ready to be ruthless when opportunities present themselves. Don't let others box you in.

Be clever. You can do it.