Chapter 4. Diving into a manageable oblivion.
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The writer thought to give himself a name. He decided to not in the end. He will keep himself as "the writer" and will write it all in third person from now on until some point when he changes his mind, since he is inconsistent. He also thinks this adds the much needed pathos, which he hopes he won't be judged for if he shows he is aware of it and does it on purpose, such a mastermind he is. As if it will excuse him.

The writer is basically a no-lifer with no particular goal or purpose. He lives in search for what to dedicate himself to, as if that's the only thing that matters and the rest will happen naturally once he finds what he was looking for. Like incels saying they don't have a girlfriend out of pure choice. 

Completely dependent on his mom and dad, he lives his meaningful and unique life in a small room, with a small bed and a small computer. He plays games everyday and that's it.

His parents have long given up on him, such a useless dimwit he is. His so-called friends are busy with their own lives. He lives in such an astonishing, unbelievable world but does nothing not for himself, nor for others.

One day, something changes. But not him, he remains the same. He plays games until he can. 

His parents die. Most of the accumulated wealth is spent on trying to sustain their last years, hoping they will recover. They were sick at different times but both went through similar scenarios. They don't recover, but the money lets them stay a little longer. After they die, they split what's left between the writer and his siblings. 

The writer keeps playing, until the wealth runs out, which happens pretty quickly. It takes a year or two to be left with nothing. Then there he is, penniless, jobless, pointless, helpless man-child in this vast, beautiful world.

He tries many things, but it's too late. He is too weak, too inexperienced to be accepted or needed anywhere. Eventually he ends up on the streets, homeless, hungry with nobody who cares. After few years, dies of infection or car accident or hunger or drug-related problems or whatever. Such is the purpose of such an aimless weakling. A life full of questions with no answers until well awaited, postponed death.

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