restless - unable to rest or relax as a result of anxiety or boredom; fidgeting; stirring.
Etymology: from French remuer, “to move”.
I miss the way things used to make me feel. Most of all, I miss feeling anything at all. Depression feels like trying to run a marathon while breathing through a straw. I think mostly it sucks to know I have so much in life—people who care for me and love me, a full bank account, a book and people who are supporting it, degrees from great schools, a family I can depend on—but still none of that erases this constant ache in my chest that leaves me tired but restless, hopeful but hopeless, and mostly sad but aware of what it feels like to not feel that way.
I wake up every day hoping that the sadness will have dried itself out, only to wake up and find that the sun is out and I can’t even feel it anymore and I don’t remember the last time I did.
1. Be creative and imaginative. Don’t be afraid to think outside the box, look for what’s unusual or original.
2. Keep your eyes on your future; don’t be dragged down by your past. The path ahead is open; there’s so much more that you can be.
3. Make the decision to overcome your fear. Although it will be hard, it is a choice – you can succeed.
4. Believe in yourself, and in all that you can do and be. Self belief causes others to believe in you as well.
5. Notice, and accept, any opportunities that will open up your future, and help you move ahead.
6. Remember to think big, and to keep pushing ahead. You need to take those steps and keep your focus on your dream.
7. Don’t listen to the people who want to see you fail. Decide to be resilient, and to push through obstacles. Their opinion doesn’t matter – and one day you will succeed!
8. Always keep things in perspective and try to lighten up. Don’t take other people or yourself too seriously.
I think this is important to me right now. I’ve got to start something now, or I’ll never have anything at all.
“$482,153.28 is how much in debt I am. So… what the fuck am I going to do about that!” Donald was just sitting in his room, with a mirror right across from his probably flea-filled cot, talking about his issues—and cursing himself out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck!” Yeah, that helps, Donny. Just keep up that bright sparkling inkling toward optimism, you happy fiend, you. If you didn’t get that, then you might want to stop reading. That there, that little reference to how jubilant our sad friend Donald is at this time about being nearly 500 grand down the hole, that is what people sometimes call sarcasm. And then it’s sometimes referred to as fucking with people. So, if you’re that kind of sick and twisted piece of shit that lingers on the possibility of fucking with deranged narrators in some sort of imaginary back ally, then let’s continue with the story; if you’re not, well, then you should believe me when I say it isn’t anything personal—I try not to fuck myself either.
Now, as for Donny here, since we’ve last spoken he’s now stopped shouting out obscenities and has decided to entertain some ideas on how he could end his life. To say he’s not very imaginative would be an understatement, and to say he—somehow—could convince himself to pull off a hanging, or even a respectable bullet to the face, would make me a liar. Let’s see, what’s going on in little Donald’s head: “You know, I could just jump out of this place—just dive out my window! Yeah, that’s it; jump out the window. It’s a story—maybe—so it should kill me, right? Would it kill me?” “….” So in essence, he sucks at this kind of convoluted grabbing-death-by-the-ball’s stuff. This undeniable fucking shit circumstance that he himself has gotten himself into, screwing him over. That’s not only his problem, though.
He’s that kind of guy that just does things. He looks at something and knows he could probably make a pretty penny out of some quick deal here and there. It’s kinda funny, I think. How he could start collecting all of those supposed pretty pennies he should have rolling around on his sad excuse of an apartment floor, and maybe fix his dilemma a bit. Or at least buy himself a nice .22 cal, and a bullet to fit. It’d save a lot of people a lot of trouble. Now, to get back on subject, Donald here—the guy still thinking how little pain tolerance he has—has been getting more and more people involved in his quick fix stunts, and well, some of them aren’t too happy that he didn’t provide. I, personally, think it’s partly their fault—those half-hidden, shady, bigwigs, who just look for someone to do something for them. But, that’s neither here nor there—and it’s definitely no longer there.
Oh, look at Donny now, scoping out his lobby floor below. A part of me thinks he even might be able to pull that off; just a short dive to take his sorry life from him and make some poor sap traumatized—and another sorry sack of filth have to clean his STD ridden blood off the floor. I guess that’s life. For me, though, a part of life is a paycheck, and paychecks are all about taking a little of your own life away, one day or night shift at a time. Donald won’t have to think much about that mediocre shit for much longer, if he ever did at all. Looky here, he’s chosen to be a scaredy-cat and cling to his apartment window’s paneling. To be honest, I’m really surprised he got himself to open the window and check the fall—got to give him props for becoming a real man; his ball’s dropping; and getting some self-dignity, all at the same time, if just for a brief moment. With any thought of him making this easier on everyone out of the way, I guess he’ll be taking someone else’s expensive lead peg instead.
Well, at this point Donald there, with his sweaty shorts and eyebrows—hoping to make it on some obscure train out of town—is probably going to get a new pair of stylish foot wear very soon. If you don’t get that, well, then I’m really sorry that you made it this far in the first place. I hope it was a good enough cluster-fuck for ya. I just don’t recommend bringing along any of Donald’s friends. One, you’ll want to get yourself checked out later, and two, you’d probably be getting some new shoes too. I’d know about these sorts of things. Life to me is a paycheck along with every kind of shift, and with every shift comes a new shoe fitting. And some obnoxious plead after, to quote our friend Donny, “No, stop! Please, I’ve got the money now—it’s in!” That’s just life—a bunch of groveling little fucks.