You’ve tried to start drawing again, but the fact that the pencil always gets dull after a while is a constant reminder of the undeniable truth that nothing lasts and you will always end up alone, so mostly you end up just sitting at your desk crying.
When you do manage to put pencil to paper, you always place your coffee on the lower right corner of the table and, inevitably, you always knock it over with your elbow when you’re not paying attention. You’ve considered placing it elsewhere, but people never change for the better and you are far from an exception, so you keep doing the same thing over and over again in exactly the same way and complain about how you’re not happy.
You hate it when you make an error while drawing, because you can either leave it screwed up or go to the eraser, but that just smudges everything around the mistake and leaves a mess of eraser shavings all over the paper and isn’t that just like you to fuck everything up while trying to fix it?
Two days ago you got a papercut while trying to draw a cat. You squeezed your finger and a little bit of blood came out and dripped onto the cat’s face. It reminded you of how you lied to yourself about how Fluffy got hit by a car last year but really you know she just ran away because even a cat thinks living on the street is preferable to spending another day trapped inside with you. You wondered how many papercuts it would take to kill you, and if you’d have the mental fortitude to go through with it anyway. You decide you probably don’t have the balls.
Your self-portrait turned out shit today. You set it on fire like all your other drawings. No use leaving tangible proof of how miserably untalented you are if you die unexpectedly and, hey, it saves you preparation time if you die expectedly.