the real deal
Wow, has it ever been a while. Everything has changed, everything is still the same. Sometimes I feel like being alone is akin to being followed by a really annoying, unpopular person to whom you were ill-advisedly nice one time, who talks constantly about nothing but herself. I'm not sure if this means anything about my mental health, emotional health, narcissism levels, ability to quiet my mind, or anything. The point is, I just don't care that much anymore. Conversations with myself have beome pretty much the most boring, insufferable part of my day. All day. Every day. Like Moby Dick, the clamor in my head is long-winded, directionless, uneventful. I'm just so sick and tired of it. All I do anymore is read. It's the kind of thing that makes me feel like my life is going to last forever. Being in my twenties feels disturbingly like being in the second hour of a work day. And being in my head feels like my only coworker is that annoying kid who won't shut up!
It's not as depressing as it sounds, merely tedious. I turn the same issues over and over in my head. Issues like, is marriage a good idea? what happened to my sister to make her so disagreeable and is future interaction with her preventable; if so, how? Is it better to turn the other cheek or devise devious revenge against the few enemies that are a constant thorn in my side? Is the view from the moral high ground really so enjoyable that it beats the heady pleasure of revenge? Should I go back to college? Does my cat seem depressed or is he just being a cat? Is it worth it to walk all the way to the library?
If you think you're bored now, try reading the last paragraph repeatedly until you fall asleep. For the next twenty-two years. I honestly believed that by this point in my life, I'd have more interesting things to think about. I really want to train myself to turn my brain off the way you would a televsision. But then I wonder, what would I become? An animal? A yogi? A saint? A Pretty Girl? Perhaps it would be more worthwhile to attempt to train myself to think more interesting things. Is it in bad taste to scratch under your bra strap in the back where the itchy flap is, in public? Probably. This here is exactly why I'm a bookworm. It does, somehow, still seem more worthwhile than video games. More prestigious and intellectual. Even though all I read is beach fiction. Insubstantial television-style fiction that entertains me while I try not to listen to myself chatter. I swear I'm getting more and more stuppid with each passing day.
It's not as depressing as it sounds, merely tedious. I turn the same issues over and over in my head. Issues like, is marriage a good idea? what happened to my sister to make her so disagreeable and is future interaction with her preventable; if so, how? Is it better to turn the other cheek or devise devious revenge against the few enemies that are a constant thorn in my side? Is the view from the moral high ground really so enjoyable that it beats the heady pleasure of revenge? Should I go back to college? Does my cat seem depressed or is he just being a cat? Is it worth it to walk all the way to the library?
If you think you're bored now, try reading the last paragraph repeatedly until you fall asleep. For the next twenty-two years. I honestly believed that by this point in my life, I'd have more interesting things to think about. I really want to train myself to turn my brain off the way you would a televsision. But then I wonder, what would I become? An animal? A yogi? A saint? A Pretty Girl? Perhaps it would be more worthwhile to attempt to train myself to think more interesting things. Is it in bad taste to scratch under your bra strap in the back where the itchy flap is, in public? Probably. This here is exactly why I'm a bookworm. It does, somehow, still seem more worthwhile than video games. More prestigious and intellectual. Even though all I read is beach fiction. Insubstantial television-style fiction that entertains me while I try not to listen to myself chatter. I swear I'm getting more and more stuppid with each passing day.