I’ve spent all afternoon reading The Fault in Our Stars, and it’s words spoke to me, as lame and cliche as that may sound. My older brother always gets mad at me for “breezing through” books, because my reading methods don’t allow me to savour the authors words, which I couldn’t disagree with more, but then again he could have just been saying that because he’s took up this new hobby of making bows and arrows & really wanted to teach me how to make some today. I suppose, it would be necessary for me learn how to make them in case of zombie apocalypse, but until then, I’ll continue on with “my hobbies” of consuming unhealthy amounts of hummus, sipping on tea and reading books. Even though, my family interprets my love for reading & solidarity, to be a sign depression, especially with my mothers horrible maternal instincts. She is always so sure I’m in the middle of a suicidal break down, and I do get down on myself a lot, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to take a knife to myself. I think I’ll just wait it out like everyone else, and let my organs slowly fail, although, being vegan probably entails a longer life. Wait, no, ha, I’m not a healthy vegan, thank God… I know it can be quite baffling to her, but I really don’t need to sit and talk to someone about every insignificant detail of my day to be happy. If anything, people are the ones that make me feel quite depressed, and maybe it’s because I’ve spent too much of my time and energy on the wrong people, honestly I’ve felt a lot of my past acquaintances have been there at their convenience and gone when I actually need them…. I do, sometimes wish I was more witty and charming, and likeable per say, but then I’d have put up with exhausting facade of myself. Which admittedly, I do try to put up at work, and I believe I do a decent job at it, but inside I feel a bit dead.