You're just too fucking good of a writer. I read your stuff and I get depressed because you describe things in such a vivid and interesting way. Mostly, your prose makes me want to take a jagged piece of plastic from a broken casset box and slit my wrists, up and down, not across because I am forced to face my own inadequacies as a writer and human being. While I understand that my suckitude is my own fault and problem, I'm having a really chemically imbalanced day, and whenever I read your stuff, I just marvel at how my own sucks in comparison. Surely there is no hope for it, or me, and the only solution is the aforementioned busted box from a Genisis album that I thought was really cool at the time.
Depression level: Phantom of the Opera/Christine, you ignorant slut