I don't know how to write about my life right now.

I've certainly been talking about it enough. I'm amazed my dad still picks up the phone when he sees me calling. I think Lori only listens now because I'm her Doctor Who supplier. I feel like I'm bringing down the spirits of everyone I talk to.

So I try to be positive. I try to think of things to say.

Except I don't really have a life outside of work. And I don't want to talk about work.

I feel isolated.

Greenwood was supposed to be my gateway to the rest of the world. And for a while, it was. I went places. I did things. With people, even.

And then people started leaving. And because I'm socially awkward and can't approach people unless they've approached me first, I found myself traveling in a never-ending circuit between work, my apartment, Target, and church.

It's stifling.

So I escape. I travel with a squire in fairytale England; a pilot in a galaxy far, far away; a team of serial killer hunters - I go to any world that isn't this one.

Except I can't stay there forever.

And I look at other people, and they are doing things. They have lives. They have purpose.

I don't know what my purpose is. I'm trying to find out.

And now I'm complaining again.

Why would you read this?