My current long term plan is to wait for my parents to die, then implement Really Extreme Altruism. I've considered my life to have a slightly negative value for some time now, but I consider the grief caused by my abrupt death to have an even worse negative value than my continued existence.

I hate thinking long-term, because it makes me miserable. It always has, because The Future just seems to consist of obstacles to come between me and my precious free time. My primary coping mechanism, when faced with just about any problem, is escapism; I go immerse myself in a video game or other work of fiction, and I stop feeling bad for a while. Like someone who's been on an addictive drug for a long time, I don't use fiction so I can feel good, I use fiction so I can feel normal.

Also, I do know how to program, but I think I hate it. Creativity is hard and requires mental effort. I'm very bad at mental effort - if I can't find a sufficiently obvious way to make progress, I tend to get frustrated and give up. The last time I had a job, I sat in my cubicle and did nothing but surf the Internet while feeling really awful about it, because I really, really didn't want to do the actual programming work.

I don't fight laziness any more. I have come to terms with laziness. I have embraced laziness. I am laziness. The less I'm obligated to do, the fewer responsibilities I have, the better. Not existing is the ultimate laziness. If I don't exist, I'll never have to do anything ever again. I'll never have to worry about eating, or going to bed at a reasonable hour, or waking up at a reasonable hour, or being bored, or being yelled at, or not living up to someone else's expectations, or being lonely, or needing to earn an income, or not living up to my own expectations. As Shakespeare put it:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin?