There I Go Again!

It's occurred to me lately that I have this strange, unbearable craving to be human.

Of course, that's not to be unexpected from any other member of this species, but I feel as though I must prove myself to be the best of the best and bust my ass to produce something perfect to fit that humanistic bill. Isn't that weird? Sure as hell wasn't there before.

I feel as though I must do everything 'correctly'; I must listen to more music, I must play more games, I must watch more films, I must shake the hands of everyone in my immediate vicinity, I must tear myself apart to fulfill that wretched humanistic criteria and I must do it now, lest it be too late.

I've wasted my entire childhood within my comfort zone. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for something to happen.
I never played games because I would've rather waited countless eternities for someone to play them with me. I never listened to new songs because I was fine listening to the same tunes until my ears shriveled unless a friend recommended me something. I never left my bedroom because there was nowhere to go nor anyone to go with. I never talked to anyone because I wanted to wait until I met someone perfect — who seems to just be an abstract concept, now that I think about it.
The world passed me by and I felt nothing. The only things that mattered were my immediate obsessions I was physically unable to control and everything else meant nothing to me. I had believed I would be long dead before I even reached the age of sixteen and it was the only thing to pull a smile out of me; I would be nothing. I would inevitably return to the void whence I came. It's the happiest childhood epiphany I can think of.

But… I'm still alive.

My sweet sixteenth came and went without fanfare. My eighteenth birthday passed with the same mundanity, much like every birthday before and every birthday after. I'm working toward my degree, I'm slowly acting upon my own desires instead of the whims of others, I've done more in the past year than I probably have in my entire life because nothing has ever happened to me except waking up and experiencing the same goddamn day again and again. There is nothing else.
And I hate that. I can't articulate how much all this makes my mind crawl with complete and utter revulsion. 'Hate' cannot even begin to describe the vomit-inducing disgust that fills me whenever I wake up and dance the same dance on the same fucking stage again. Nothing will ever change because I'm too much of a chickenshit to drive a serrated knife into my jugular and saw away at the muscle and sinew until my body can't do anything but convulse.
I'm still alive despite everything and I'm worse than nothing. This is a fate incomprehensibly worse than death just because I had hopefully continued waiting for something to happen: my bones and muscles crushing beneath the weight of a speeding semi-truck, a 12-gauge shotgun barrel caressing the underside of my jaw, I could regurgitate the chemicals I impulsively drank until my organs failed or repeatedly slam my head on the scorching pavement until I'm guaranteed a closed-casket funeral. I want to puke until I'm dry-heaving. I want to sob my fucking eyes out and I don't know why. I don't know what's wrong with me.

I either repay my debt to humanity for reminding me of my inherent inferiority or have my life unceremoniously snuffed. Life unworthy of life. Life unworthy of unlife. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. I'll live, and this same sentiment will carry on to the next day just as it has since I was ten. I want to die. I'm sorry I haven't yet.

I don't know where this is coming from because nothing has happened to me and nothing ever will. I'm just some guy from suburbia.
No past case of assault, or abuse, or exploitation, or fights. Nothing. Nothing at all. No past event or backstory element of mine could psychologically justify this mindset and yet I can't help but want to claw at my skin until my eyes are bloodshot. I need to create something so undeniably and indisputably perfect that even a fucking subhuman like me may have the privilege of looking someone in the eyes.
I've waited and waited, but no one ever came and nothing ever happened. Now, I'm running up and down like my life depends on it to have something to show for all those wasted years spent in isolation. All of those years making a fool of myself, whether that be intentionally or unintentionally. Anything to prove I'm human and not nothing. Desires, passions, love that's both mutual and real. Anything at all that'll permit me to be something.

Art and experiences and fun is what makes a human, so I've heard. So I've heard. So I've heard — regurgitated from the throats of a thousand people on the internet who I hold the pleasure of never meeting.
Creating is what makes or breaks a human. Creating leads to beautiful, sacred moments I could only dream of. Ones I'll never receive the permission of experiencing. Ones I could only wish for. Art is human. Art is a human trait. Something for oneself or others. Something inherently selfless regardless of its audience. But do I make selfish art if the only audience I'm concerned with is myself? Am I even an artist myself if I fail to qualify as human in the first place?

I don't know what the hell my problem is. I'm not diagnosed with anything nor do I have any mental case professionally documented beyond a few school counselor's because I was too edgy and cynical for my own good as a preteen.
Nothing ever happened to me. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. It could be menstruation or something. I don't talk to anyone. Even if I do, there's nothing I say about myself beyond cherrypicked anecdotes. Maybe this has just been brewing in my chest ever since I was eight with nowhere to go since I was too scared of getting in trouble if I ever told anyone or lashed out at my old classmates who I despised above all else. Maybe it's my parents and I'm actually doing all of this for attention to make up for a lack of it. Maybe I'm just not acting my age. Maybe it's something else.

Maybe it's just me and my existence and I'm sorry. I'm all that isn't, wasn't, and never will be. I'm just some guy who likes superheroes. I'm sorry.

This'll be deleted later.