Idiomatic Idiocy

Lately I have been finding it particularly difficult to organize my thoughts into any sort of coherent sentence. Nothing makes sense anymore, it's all just a bunch of jumbled up nothing floating around aimlessly in the void of my mind. Is there some sort of black hole in my head causing this? Spaghettifying my words, compressing my thoughts, turning them into nothing.
I struggle constantly with the reality of just how painfully ordinary, excruciatingly unexceptional, agonizingly unremarkable I am. It's a hard pill to swallow, and nothing can make it go down easier.
I have always been the mediator, the people pleaser. I possess hardly any strong opinions on any subject. How ridiculous is it to think of a writer with nothing to say? That's like a surfer without an ocean, a singer without a voice.
And then there’s you. When you were my age, you already had a career laid out for you, people around the world knew your name—my own family struggles to remember I exist.
I was told that the best revenge is to live a happy life, to show you what you’re missing, but how could I when you don’t even realize that I exist?
Soon you will take her hand, vow to love and cherish her in sickness and in health, and you will not even have the slightest clue that I breathe the same recycled air, see the same sunset, exist on the same floating, orbiting rock that you do. How does it feel to be okay right now? How does it feel to have your shit together, honestly, I want to know. Because while you are loving her, being loved by her, beginning the rest of your life with her, I will still be here. Confined within the same four walls that seem to shrink with every passing day for the last six years, in a town that I outgrew ages ago.
I feel suffocated. Smothered by my own inhibitions, the countless friends who were never really friends, the formidable approach of an obscure future.
How cruel is it for there to exist someone you believe to be so perfect for you, you put them up on this pedestal and love them unrequitedly for eight years, which just so happens to be the difference between you and him, and he proposes to someone else.
Someone more beautiful, more intelligent, more talented, more special, more, more, more.
I feel stupid, but at least I can admit that, right?