Stop-gap measures intended to mitigate systemic problems in life, more often than not, amount to the fortification of those intended problems in question.

Here I write again, hoping to rationalize the deleterious decisions I have made for myself over the last few years. Though half-drunk, and somewhat disillusioned by the sheer force of stress, I feel as if I can manage an account by words of how I have described my life until now, and on the changes necessary to bring that course within the constraints of my wishes for my future-directed volition.
I'm in a room. It's plainly furnished, with an inflatable bed and a bench on which the computer I use is situated. I've been drinking some Sailor Jerry, and I feel a little off with regards to my capacity for reservation. So now I am compelled to write.
I feel empty, like a void in an otherwise homogeneously populated 3-space of atomic matter. My thoughts, indeed, do occupy the 2^n possible recombination of ideas accessible to the abstract virtue of human thought. When I obtain new information (which is, inherently, governed by the principles of chaos theory), I tend to address it with a pathological state of mind, and I file it for rationalization.
This is, objectively, a strategy that will ensue my untimely demise. I must become a functioning member of society. But the gravity of that undertaking is more than I wish to endure. My instincts tell me to maintain my current momentum towards failure, whilst my conscious direction suggests that I make a diametrically opposite destination as my intended target. My 4-evolution in space-time has been everything short of glorious - I am a slave to chemical substance, and my capacity for expressing myself exactly has been greatly diminished. But there exists the unassuming ideal - that I can fix my circumstances - which looms before my gaze. I can recognize this outcome as palpable, and I want it before anything else.
When I was in Korea, I once knew a girl that I thought I could eventually marry. She was perfect, in my eyes. No flaw betrayed her identity. Things never worked out, and the only reasons I could interpolate were:
1.) She didn't like me in a romantic sense, or
2.) I never tried.
I have always resigned myself to the belief of the former option, but now I seriously wonder whether or not the latter might have been the true cause of my ineptitude.
Regardless, let's fast-forward into the present. Here I sit, drafting a confession of invalidity, under the guise of a proclamation of fixing my circumstances. I have no idea what I should expect from the future. I can only guarantee that my current state of mind will direct me into darker waters, and that is a direction in which I wish not to go.
Who the fuck am I? My family, unapologetically, thinks I am some sort of uncovered genius that simply awaits its discovery; my own perception is farthest from their own. For those of you who have seen 'Ozymandias' of Breaking Bad, my mental fortitude is rival to the plot revealed in this episode. I am reaping what I sowed. The consequences of my inaction, over the years, has resulted in the deterministic downfall plaguing my life.
Our actions have gravity. They manifest themselves, in the natural world, as intractable motions that definitively set the course for downfall. And here I sit, on this bed, typing my alcohol-infused confession of self-directed fall from glory. What ought I to do with my life? Why am I always fucking up?
I suppose that I must formulate a plan, based on logic, in order to proceed in the act of distancing myself from those current actions resulting in my own detriment.
For now, I must consider the constraints of my life, and change so as to effect a new and brighter future for myself. But the gravity of the task before me is dissuasive. I try every day, with this conscious directive, but I am haplessly resigned to the realization of my actions made in poor judgement.
I hope I can change. That's all I can hope for.