Misguided Asshole Alert
I was thinking of just getting on the train tonight, taking it out to 16th and Mission, hitch the bus to the Castro district, and accomplishing the simple task of ordering and enjoying a beer in the possible company of other gay men like myself.
I had this '89 Honda civic that did well for the most part but wouldn't start when it rained. I sold it for $400 when my sister stopped driving her car, a Saturn. I started driving the Saturn, but after the alternator shot out the thing turned out a whole new set of problems that are going to cost $1,500 plus to take care of.
I live at my parents' house. I currently don't have a job, nor any prospects and I tend to spend evenings at my friends' house in Hayward doing God knows what. While there's always a new face in the mix, and I dearly love everyone that I've come to know in their company, the house still represents an isolationist part of myself. I go there because I do not want to be alone and I feel too stupid and scared to open myself up to the world.
I'm writing a book. I just wrote a screenplay. Both my book and my screenplay involve drugs, hallucinations, and dream-realities. I seek escapism of the most immediate sense. I naturally gravitate towards an elaborate fantasy, one so complex it simply overshadows the mangled, festering corpse of reality. I want to wake each morning, read, and then write until I am exhausted. I feel I will probably endure any amount of pathetic waste in order to maintain this routine. I do not want to give up writing. I do not want to lose the strength and ability to write to a full-time job where I am miserable.
I do not feel that I am special, that I deserve any such privilege. I somewhat wish that my parents had been much, much harder on me. I wish they had thrown me out. I wish that I'd learned to live from scratch, but instead I've led this somewhat pampered (not so much comparitively), wholesome life.
I often think about when I was in seventh grade, I must have been between twelve and fourteen, and I remember cutting the rift between myself and the world. I remember deciding I would not talk to other kids. I remember when I started to think about sex with other men. I remember hearing about homosexuality being condemned by the Bible -- this was never something anyone discussed in my family. My parents were never outspoken about anything, and we never discussed things openly if they were touchy or vulgar in anyway. I wish we had.
I only came out to my mom up front about a month ago. She said she and my dad already knew, which figured, but I wish they had said something. I was so scared for so long about what things would be like and they left everything up to me.
I guess I feel like I can't handle anything by myself. Now, that I'm at a point where I have to make an extraordinary change, I don't know how to do it.
I dug myself a deep, deep hole. The deeper I dug, the darker things were, and the less I knew. I am the worst kind of fool, the kind that is so ashamed to be a fool that he buries himself in a deep, dark hole.
Friends of mine are completely self-sufficient, yet they live their lives for fun and drugs and wild nights and video games and nothing. I'm a leech. I'm like a tumor on my parents' expenses. Yet, I sit here writing prosaically about my lament instead of mobilizing some sort of attack.
I'm afraid to go out and meet men like myself. What if they learn about my woolgathering ways and assume I'm looking for a free ride on their coat tails? Or, perhaps worse, what if they offer me a free ride off the bat and I accept it, and ride it for several years until the whole thing sours and I'm back here where I was, only years have gone by and I have no solid ground upon which to build up my enterprise?
Sometimes I wonder, is this really what I'm thinking about? Do I really compute the world into such logical, meaningless terms and process my actions accordingly? I was under the impression that we all do.
I don't want to meet someone that is just going to make all of my troubles go away. I want to meet a man that's going to make me a better man. But I can't say I'm a strong person. My will is weak; weak as fuck.
This is all very serious blatherskite. I write this as a means to justify my idleness. Maybe that's a lie, though. I wasn't thinking very hard when I wrote it.
However, I come to this message board as a shallow means to seek validation. Many of you have known me through all of this... known me as words and pictures... None of you have ever met me, though I don't doubt you understand the feelings we share, and what we universally must suffer... The loneliness is like a rasp. You feel it whenever you are scared, whenever you don't know what to do, or what you've done, whether you've made some horrible mistake already or are just on the course of making one... You want someone to find you in your sadness and rip you from it, hold you in their arms and assure you, everything is going to be all right.
We are all in the same metaphorical boat here. rowing down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily...
Intelligence is such a difficult thing to measure. There are those people who absorb great strongholds of knowledge, but are gullible and easily manipulated. I am the kind of person who can save a moderate amount of relevant knowledge only with practice, though I have good problem-solving skills, at least I'd like to think so. Somehow I still feel so dumb when it comes to living in the world. I would expect to live out in the world only to have some dumb problem encroach upon my life and have my will crumble and succumb to some dumb error. Haul me off to jail. I had to ripen in the nineties; I keep thinking about Claire Danes mumbling about how boys at school make her want to kill herself... I was in the garage earlier thinking about how I'm such a bitch and I saw a gallon of some soapy liquid, thought I could drink it and be over with this dumb-ass life in a couple of hours, but then what a mess I'd probably make. Suicide doesn't strike me as a solution of any kind, yet I often retreat into fantasies of total sudden blackness after I crash my car into a wall or stab myself in the face. I do not consider myself suicidal, however, I am merely disposed to morbid thoughts of these kind.
I got a shitty attitude, don't I? I have so much respect for people who don't let things sit and grow on their life like a tumor. Why put it off? Why procrastinate when all you do is think about how shitty that ugly festering wart on your life has become? I don't know. I don't know why I let things stay until the last possible second. DO IT NOW! DO IT NOW! FIX IT!
I recently had the thought about my parents that they were rather like children themselves, at least in the same way that I am childish. I ask them the questions the world asks me and they don't have answers. What am I supposed to make of that? And here I am, this festering tumor on their lives, and what have they done about me? My mom drops a thousand self-help books in my lap but never asks me what my problem really is. They're equally fantasy-prone and escapist. I think about where I live -- a far-off hideaway in California... this perfect, quiet neighborhood. My mom once called it, "a great place to raise children."
I don't even want to say anymore, really. I'm just scared right now and I don't know what to do so I wrote a whole thing about all the crap I've been wasting my thoughts with. I need a real thing right now. Some kind of real justifyable meaningfucl FUDKX FUCKING THING
I had this '89 Honda civic that did well for the most part but wouldn't start when it rained. I sold it for $400 when my sister stopped driving her car, a Saturn. I started driving the Saturn, but after the alternator shot out the thing turned out a whole new set of problems that are going to cost $1,500 plus to take care of.
I live at my parents' house. I currently don't have a job, nor any prospects and I tend to spend evenings at my friends' house in Hayward doing God knows what. While there's always a new face in the mix, and I dearly love everyone that I've come to know in their company, the house still represents an isolationist part of myself. I go there because I do not want to be alone and I feel too stupid and scared to open myself up to the world.
I'm writing a book. I just wrote a screenplay. Both my book and my screenplay involve drugs, hallucinations, and dream-realities. I seek escapism of the most immediate sense. I naturally gravitate towards an elaborate fantasy, one so complex it simply overshadows the mangled, festering corpse of reality. I want to wake each morning, read, and then write until I am exhausted. I feel I will probably endure any amount of pathetic waste in order to maintain this routine. I do not want to give up writing. I do not want to lose the strength and ability to write to a full-time job where I am miserable.
I do not feel that I am special, that I deserve any such privilege. I somewhat wish that my parents had been much, much harder on me. I wish they had thrown me out. I wish that I'd learned to live from scratch, but instead I've led this somewhat pampered (not so much comparitively), wholesome life.
I often think about when I was in seventh grade, I must have been between twelve and fourteen, and I remember cutting the rift between myself and the world. I remember deciding I would not talk to other kids. I remember when I started to think about sex with other men. I remember hearing about homosexuality being condemned by the Bible -- this was never something anyone discussed in my family. My parents were never outspoken about anything, and we never discussed things openly if they were touchy or vulgar in anyway. I wish we had.
I only came out to my mom up front about a month ago. She said she and my dad already knew, which figured, but I wish they had said something. I was so scared for so long about what things would be like and they left everything up to me.
I guess I feel like I can't handle anything by myself. Now, that I'm at a point where I have to make an extraordinary change, I don't know how to do it.
I dug myself a deep, deep hole. The deeper I dug, the darker things were, and the less I knew. I am the worst kind of fool, the kind that is so ashamed to be a fool that he buries himself in a deep, dark hole.
Friends of mine are completely self-sufficient, yet they live their lives for fun and drugs and wild nights and video games and nothing. I'm a leech. I'm like a tumor on my parents' expenses. Yet, I sit here writing prosaically about my lament instead of mobilizing some sort of attack.
I'm afraid to go out and meet men like myself. What if they learn about my woolgathering ways and assume I'm looking for a free ride on their coat tails? Or, perhaps worse, what if they offer me a free ride off the bat and I accept it, and ride it for several years until the whole thing sours and I'm back here where I was, only years have gone by and I have no solid ground upon which to build up my enterprise?
Sometimes I wonder, is this really what I'm thinking about? Do I really compute the world into such logical, meaningless terms and process my actions accordingly? I was under the impression that we all do.
I don't want to meet someone that is just going to make all of my troubles go away. I want to meet a man that's going to make me a better man. But I can't say I'm a strong person. My will is weak; weak as fuck.
This is all very serious blatherskite. I write this as a means to justify my idleness. Maybe that's a lie, though. I wasn't thinking very hard when I wrote it.
However, I come to this message board as a shallow means to seek validation. Many of you have known me through all of this... known me as words and pictures... None of you have ever met me, though I don't doubt you understand the feelings we share, and what we universally must suffer... The loneliness is like a rasp. You feel it whenever you are scared, whenever you don't know what to do, or what you've done, whether you've made some horrible mistake already or are just on the course of making one... You want someone to find you in your sadness and rip you from it, hold you in their arms and assure you, everything is going to be all right.
We are all in the same metaphorical boat here. rowing down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily...
Intelligence is such a difficult thing to measure. There are those people who absorb great strongholds of knowledge, but are gullible and easily manipulated. I am the kind of person who can save a moderate amount of relevant knowledge only with practice, though I have good problem-solving skills, at least I'd like to think so. Somehow I still feel so dumb when it comes to living in the world. I would expect to live out in the world only to have some dumb problem encroach upon my life and have my will crumble and succumb to some dumb error. Haul me off to jail. I had to ripen in the nineties; I keep thinking about Claire Danes mumbling about how boys at school make her want to kill herself... I was in the garage earlier thinking about how I'm such a bitch and I saw a gallon of some soapy liquid, thought I could drink it and be over with this dumb-ass life in a couple of hours, but then what a mess I'd probably make. Suicide doesn't strike me as a solution of any kind, yet I often retreat into fantasies of total sudden blackness after I crash my car into a wall or stab myself in the face. I do not consider myself suicidal, however, I am merely disposed to morbid thoughts of these kind.
I got a shitty attitude, don't I? I have so much respect for people who don't let things sit and grow on their life like a tumor. Why put it off? Why procrastinate when all you do is think about how shitty that ugly festering wart on your life has become? I don't know. I don't know why I let things stay until the last possible second. DO IT NOW! DO IT NOW! FIX IT!
I recently had the thought about my parents that they were rather like children themselves, at least in the same way that I am childish. I ask them the questions the world asks me and they don't have answers. What am I supposed to make of that? And here I am, this festering tumor on their lives, and what have they done about me? My mom drops a thousand self-help books in my lap but never asks me what my problem really is. They're equally fantasy-prone and escapist. I think about where I live -- a far-off hideaway in California... this perfect, quiet neighborhood. My mom once called it, "a great place to raise children."
I don't even want to say anymore, really. I'm just scared right now and I don't know what to do so I wrote a whole thing about all the crap I've been wasting my thoughts with. I need a real thing right now. Some kind of real justifyable meaningfucl FUDKX FUCKING THING