I used to wallow in self pity . .
. . and depression now and then, though it was never a really big thing for me. Then one day, in the depths of dispair, I stepped back and took a look at myself from outside and noticed how I was enjoying the hell out of it in a perverse sort of way. I haven't been able to have a decent depression since (not that I really want to), I just can't take it seriously any more.
Of course, like most young men, I had rounds of suicidalism, but that didn't work out either. I'd think about what I'd put in my suicide note, then look at my surroundings and think "who's going to respect the suicidal sentiments of someone who dies in this sort of self-imposed squalor", so I'd set about cleaning house in preparation.
This was self defeating, of course. Who wants to commit suicide when you've just finished up your work and have a nice clean and orderly house. Time to go out and and try to lure some chicks.
