To twist Dylan Moran's words, I hate myself so much it gives me energy.
God I just want to rip out this disgusting, worthless identity. This shackled husk of nothing more than delusion, hatred and pathological neurosis. That often unsure voice, which says so little, and muddles up so much, and when it is sure, is sure to make a fool of its owner; that desperate poverty of real talent and ability; that ugly, inconceivably selfish competitiveness; the see-saw emotions with the jack-in-the-box anger; the overarching, overwhelming, everlasting laziness. At once tremendously superior and tremendously inferior; a mess of flip-flopping self-worth, always at the mercy of trivial events, always ready to turn from devil to saint and back again in my own esteems; from resting on my laurels to tearing them away, from condemning to praising, from basking in the glow of self-satisfaction to sinking to the depths of self-loathing. There is no cohesion, there is no stability, there is nothing keeping me afloat but ceaseless self-obsession.