to be a real boy. (lets be gender-neutral with that word for a second, eh?)

Depression.
 
    It's funny, you know?
You'd expect it to sneak up on you, gliding along with its great swirling cloak of gloom, exhaling anesthesiatic breaths on unknowing suspects -poof- blowing plumes of despair in your face like a sarcastic, tooth-pick chewing asshole.

I mean, most of the time it is like that. But not always.
Sometimes it shows up waving and flapping its arms, screaming like a banshee and while you're all seized up from the shock (and ridiculousness) of it all, it punches you. Right in the gut.

Woosh.

Air slingshots out of your lungs, your stomach yearningly stretching to kiss your spine, and its not the pain, that draws your focus. Nah, you realize how motherfucking empty you are, like some monstrous over-animated Pinocchio of a blow up doll. I just wanted to be a real boy...

That's the thing about depression though.
There's nothing wrong with your life. Nothing at all.

But why the terrible empty hunger?