I can see it now. I will definitely die alone.

I will be in my 70s, still living in this house, alone. My parents would've died by now. My siblings would have their own families, and are living in their own places. That leaves me, watching over this house, while not exactly taking care of it, since it will be messier than it is now - my mother is meticulous, as you'd expect - and the whole place is breaking apart.

There'd probably be many jars in the kitchen, of things I fancied buying, ended up buying, and never consumed much of. My current room will be dusty, which means I can't spend time there unless I want another asthma attack. I'd be sleeping in the master bedroom, only with a dead air conditioner.

And the tables would be full of stuff that I can't be bothered to pick up and put away. Every surface, really. Decades-old magazines piled in every corner, no longer organized like I would, because I'd read them anyway, over and over again. What would I do in my free time anyway? I'd look over the house, read the newspaper, go nostalgic about the past, and maybe play The Sims in my now terribly obsolete computer. For hours. And then I'd get frustrated because my game is corrupted again, and then I'll feel bad for myself. So why am I here anyway? I'd ask.

One day I will realize that my house is getting too messy even for me. I will have to store my magazines from the time when Justin Bieber was still king. I will decide to keep some of them in my old room. I will get in there, stacks of Q in tow, and I will take in all the dust, and I will have an asthma attack, a severe asthma attack. And that will be the end of the story.

If my parents are to be believed, I will die alone. They will say that whenever they can. I'd tell them about how my friends are treating me - like shit, really - and they'd tell me that I'm doing things all wrong. I justify my actions, and they'll say that I'm screwing this up. At this rate, they'd always say, nobody will want to spend time with you. You will die alone. A scary thought, but one that's looking all true at the moment.

I'm just 22, but here I am, wondering about where I will end up. I refuse to acknowledge my parents' belief that I screwed up, but I also believe that I screwed up. I shouldn't have gone against the grain, for one. I should've been more forgiving of the people around me. I should've been more malleable and less rigid. Now, I'm getting by, but I spend seven days of the week at home, virtually alone, relying on people halfway around the world for conversation that will never reach the level of understand that you've always hoped to see from the people you deal with in person. And I'd be on Twitter, seeing people invite other people for things. How come I'm never considered? I'd wonder. Well, either I'm not really their priority, I'd continue, or I'm just absolutely repulsive, more repulsive that I know I am. Why else would they not want me around? And then I'd realize that my parents might be right. And I'd resist that notion yet again.

I never understood the need for rules to deal with the world, really. For one, these rules contradict each other. Be yourself, but don't do this because I don't like that. That is the golden rule. Be yourself, but within limits. In other words, be like everybody else. And be confident. There is no room in this world for people like you, Niko - for people who are completely unsure of what they are doing, because that makes for uncomfortable relations.

But they contradict each other, so I've gone about things just winging it, basically. I give others a chance, but I don't get one. I try my best to be good, only to be abandoned midway through the flight. I start friendships but people disregard you anyway, because really, what's the use of getting to know new people when I have people who I already know for the longest time?

My parents think I will reach my 70s alone, and it's all my fault.

I will, however, reach my 70s alone, and blame all of you for not giving me a chance.

And your responses...

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