There isn't a thing you could do to make my situation better.
You people like to think that you could change my lucky stars if you wanted to, as though you are angelic beings who can pluck we lepers from our squalor and dirt on a whim. If I cared to share with you, it's likely you wouldn't believe my story anyway.
The world is a bigger place than you would ever imagine, with an expanse of experience broader than your mind can fathom — neither bad nor good, but certainly considerable experience.
I have studied astrophysics, Shakespeare, and written a thousand melancholy poems. I have screamed in ecstasy agony and cried stars into the sky. I have been beaten and drugged up and dragged out of my precious holes I just wanted to sleep in.
And now I sit on city buses, watching the time go by. People busy with shopping, working, kids, busy busy busy. And nothing else is real.