and mine, but it grows something stale with me

I feel like such a waste.

Of oxygen. Of space. Of whatever.
If only I tried a little harder, I could do so much more.
If I gave a little more effort.
I could be so much more.
If I slept a little more, worked a little more.
If I stopped a little more, breathed a little more.
If I wanted to, I could, and I am remorseful of the fact that it takes so much to pull what little me there is out of me.
If I spent a little more time focusing,
a little more time trying to stay alert.
I would stop flailing in calculus, and I would be reading As You Like It, which I actually find a good read, at 3 PM instead of 3 AM. I would be putting in a little more around the house. I would have income. I would excel in government. I would stop feeling so stressed, burdened. I wouldn't be thinking about things that I have no control over, nor things that I do not desire to have any control over, and least of all things that I could have control over if I wanted to, but do not because I lack the will to want anything.
I can not burn out yet. What shall I do?
Why must there be complications? You understand now why I crave simplicity; why I want, above all, for things to be simple. In every aspect of my life there never ceases to be complications. Math is complicated. My family is complicated. Money is complicated. School, theatre, work. Constantly depending on others for a source of transportation irks me. Having spent my entire life under economical circumstances irks me. Being born irks me. Being an accident irks me. Not having an account irks me. It matters little now because I have nothing to put in it, and I would have nothing to take out regardless because I have given it all, I have given it all and I'm sorry but I've nothing more to give.