Perhaps there are ulterior motives, but if that's true, they are too deep to be uncovered.
Careful. Your "apathy" is showing. Why should our ulterior motives be too deep to be uncovered? They're your ulterior motives--if anyone could know them, it would be you. Further, based on what you're telling us, the only person in the entire world who could possibly know them is you, because you don't interact with anyone.
Except, of course, for right now.
Have you enjoyed talking about yourself with us? Do you like being asked questions? Has our interest in your life--in you--been pleasant? Has this entire experience had any kind of positive effect on the past 2 hours of your life? Has it had a negative effect? At least has this disruption of the static pattern of your life been interesting in some way, even if it equals only the relative fascination you have for the particular shape of this morning’s shit?
Have you ever seen the movie “Good Will Hunting?” You know that scene in the middle, after Will has gone through all these psychologists until he meets Robin Williams and they get into the thing where Will starts talking shit about Robin Williams’ life, his wife, etc. And then they meet again, and Robin Williams says:
So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. [...] And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. [...] You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. [...] No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. [...] Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated.
You talk a lot in this thread about how little you have to offer, how no one would hire you, how it’s too late to get a degree, how it’s pointless to go to coffee shops. After all, you have everything you need in your cushy basement; you’ve got your computers and your internet and your books where you read about the lives of others.
And yet when someone asked you what you’re going to do when your parents die, you mention off-handedly that you might hop on a plane, start a new life somewhere else.
What exactly does that mean? Do you honestly think that moving to Paris or London or New York will magically make your hang-ups disappear? Do you think in a new and unfamiliar environment, where you don’t even have the comfort of having two people who love you so much that they have supported you for 32 years, will somehow make you a better prospect for jobs, for a degree, for a friend, for a girlfriend?
Do you think it will be easier to get a job when you’re 42? Will it be easier to go back to school when you’re 52? Do you think you’ll find the hot babe of your dreams when you’re 62? Will you finally be ready to embark upon this new life when you’re 72?
Bzzzz, wrong answer. There is no “new life” in real life. You don’t get an alter ego. You’ve got this life. You’re unhappy, or at least, mildly less than satisfied, existing in a surreal, detached funk, and today, two hours ago, you decided to talk about your life with a bunch of humans all over the world.
I repeat my question, which you didn’t answer: what do you want?
If there is any part of you that wants something better than this, who wants a different existence, if a part of you imagines the time twenty years from now when your parents are gone and you suddenly have the capital to buy a plane ticket to somewhere other than here, if part of you wants to experience a tiny fraction of what your 6.8 billion fellow members of mankind experience... well, stand the fuck up. Unplug. Fucking do it.
No one can change you except for you.
It’s not enough to read about life. By nature of the medium, you are automatically experiencing it watered-down, second-hand, a pale imitation. Real life isn’t words on the page. Real humans are not comprised of text typed into a comment box on a website.
We are creatures of habit. We learn behaviors, we repeat them, until any change of behavior seems ludicrous. Impossible. But it’s not. We are creatures driven by our instincts, but not ruled by them. Just because you sit in your basement on the computer right now doesn’t mean that you must. In five minutes, if you wanted, you could put on a pair of jeans and sneakers and go outside for half an hour. In two hours, you could take the bus to a coffee shop with a book and sit there for half an hour.
Maybe you’ll enjoy yourself. Maybe you’ll be anxious as hell. But goddamn, at least you’d feel something. At least you’ll have learned something about yourself. “Hey, I went to a coffee shop today and the milk steamer was fucking loud. Forget that.” And just like that, you have now had a new experience. You’ve learned something you didn’t know before.
But hell. Why the fuck did I waste 20 minutes of my time thinking about you when you can’t be bothered to think about yourself?
“Perhaps there are ulterior motives, but if that's true, they are too deep to be uncovered.”
Bullshit. Uncover them yourself. That is what living is all about. So fucking live.