Sometimes I hate myself.
Sometimes I feel like almost every human is a horrible undeserving stereotypical monster that wouldn’t hesitate to put you down if they got themselves up.
Sometimes when I talk to other people I hate them. Sometimes I talk to them and hate myself. Sometimes I hate that I can talk their ears off with paragraphs and paragraphs of thoughts of life, love, the universe and every dirty joke imaginable, and sometimes I hate the fact that they can't respond in kind. Sometimes I see the one sentence replies and I hate their guts. Sometimes I hate the fact that people don't talk to me unless I talk to them. Sometimes I hate the fact that I unknowingly have done that to people. Sometimes I hate the fact that even though I know that they have perfectly valid excuses that I still hate them anyways.
Sometimes I fail the point to see why to continue on. Sometimes I feel like the world is one cruel joke that tests a person's will to live. Sometimes I feel like humans can never get along and love and friendship are just excuses to validify our existences.
Sometimes I feel like humans are radiant creatures with hopes, desires, dreams, and wonderful unique amazing personalities shaped by billions of different individual stimuli gathered over a number of earthly experiences in numbers so high we couldn't even fathom the mixture that ended up becoming each person and every single person we see when we when we turn our heads.
Sometimes I hate myself, but sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I try to see life as something worth living and try to keep living life until I find the thing that really makes me want to keep living it.