Why I Avoid Quiet Dark Places Where Thinking is the Only Thing to Do

I just realised that if I had played my cards right—if, for one moment, I were not completely selfish and idealistic—I could be graduating in April. I could have a job—a real job—in an area with a reasonable high school and an affordable standard of living; my little sister could get out of this house with three years of high school still ahead of her.
As much as this Christmas has been nearly greeting-card perfect, I still hate myself for leaving her here so I can soak up useless information for years in a university like a very thirsty sponge desperately postponing my ultimately inevitable destiny of become something wet sponges are not good for, like being a doorstop. This greedy sponge should be satisfied with four years of college study. What more do I want? How is my spring-term trip to see London theatre going to help anyone but myself? How is crawling back to my parents for mission money going to hurt my family? How is my absence already hurting my sister?
Why can't I sleep? Why do I think I'm so important anyway?