selfish drivel
that I feel like shit should not be a surprising or new revelation. normally, when I feel this low, I wouldn't even bother with a livejournal entry, but I feel that, given that people claim to have been looking for one, I should give this low-rated program to the viewers. I know I am deeply upset that Mad Men won't be around until 2012; it heartens me, in the most narcissistic of ways, to know that people care enough to actually want to see what crappy prose I've thrown together. PHEW.
boring introductions aside....I'm not doing well. I thought I was doing well, back in January and early February. Something clicked within me in early February --a spark so powerful, it could not be ignored. Now that I have given in, and started smoking & drinking & increased my scratcher purchases, I have --in the words of some -- hit rock bottom. But I think there is still darker and deeper to go. Of course, I hate myself at this moment.
But I hate you, just as much. I hate you for being you; I hate you for loving me, and letting me love you. I hate our love, because it means that there is something real, something tangible, even if it is just a transference of energy. A transference of "positive" ions from one lonely creature to another.
No, that isn't directed at any one person --none of you are that special. Instead, that preceding paragraph is dedicated to every single person I've ever felt anything about. If I've ever cared for you, and let you know it, if your eyes come across this prose, know that those words were meant for you. They were meant to hurt you, to sting you, but mostly, to let you know how damaged I am.
I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased. So Dostoevsky wrote, and so I shall borrow his words. I am, indeed, a sick man. I am also spiteful, and unpleasant. Apparently, however, people say that is merely me at my worst. Well, right now, I am inching again toward the bottom --that is, if I ever stopped my free fall.
Christ, I had a great flow, a rhythm built into this broken entry. But now, like so many other things, it has fractured. The magic I had will never be recaptured again. Normally, that is how I feel about most of my lj entries, quite honestly. At this moment, I don't care. I won't abandon this entry; for it is too honest, too truthful, too....Me.
I am the prose of a broken man. I am a philistine, to say the least. Or, at least, I worry about what my detractors might say. I wish I could worry about what my fans would say, but I'm afraid I never had any --at least, that I didn't alienate immediately upon discovering that they cared for someone other than themselves.
I am also a selfish man. Wait, why do I keep referring to myself as a man? Even by biological standards, I am not really a "full man" even when I am "fully aroused." Meh. I could have been wild and I could have been free / but Nature played this trick on me... Oh, Morrissey! Why am I not well-endowed? Would I truly care less if I had the penis of even an average man? I digress. Once again --and this time, to be overtly sexual and show truly how sophomoric I can be -- I have lost the main thrust.
I don't know. I could just write "Dalton Ames" a bunch of times. That usually, used to be, generally speaking, a good means of conveyance for how fucked up I am. That, and peppering an entry with a few Dalton Ames. But, that would not be appropriate. I am no longer in high school. Religion and sexuality have failed me, for I have failed them.
I'll never be happy or comfortable in my own skin. When I heard that cruel comment, and then heard how I compared to my then mentor, Art Hartley...well, it damaged me. I am damaged goods. I'll never get what I want, mainly because I'll never know what I want.
This entry has been retitled because, as incoherent as it is, it still has a point: to remind readers that I don't trust them. Well, I do trust you. But certainly more than I should. I need approval; I never got it when I needed it. I don't know. I don't know...Dalton...See? And suddenly, it is 2004, all over again.
No matter what I do, I can not help but feel filled with regret. I don't have the urge to drink right now, but I know it'll come over me once more. just like I don't have very many urges at the moment. Well, I am tired. Perhaps to sleep is an urge? Yes. Yes it is.
I have to get all the hurt out. All the pain. The sorrow we've caused each other is too much for me to hold onto any longer. Truly, there is something wrong with me.
The doctors call it "bipolar disorder." I'm not sure what I call it. I don't want to be real; I just want to be medicated, so I can go back to being fake and happy, like the rest of you. I don't know...
All these thoughts rush through my mind on a daily basis. But no one seems to understand...you shout and no one seems to hear... Get it? Why doesn't anyone seem to hear? How many shouts for help have I myself not heeded when I could have very well done something to help my fellow man? (I use "man" in the neutral sense, not implying someone with a penis. I mention this, because, part of my damage is my perception of gender & gender relations....but that is another can of worms).
The more I write, the more cans of worms I inevitably open. For the more there is to expose, to remove from my conscious mind. I'm so tired of life at the moment. I should go to bed, and sleep on it, but I know I won't rouse for at least 12 hours should I go lay down, and frankly, that doesn't sound appealing either...Nothing does.
I guess I have hit rock bottom. So many times, that when I fell on the floor, I drank more... Oh well. Maybe, just maybe there is a solution to all of this...
Yes. Increased medication? Check. Finding a therapist? Working on it! Trying to eat healthy? No. Never. I dunno. God, why am I such a failure?
Why do ya'll make it look so easy? who put their disease in me? I don't want to live, but I don't want to die, either. I just want to be me, and when I can, I will...
I think I'm done. Not with life, but with this entry. I rambled so much, I forgot why I came here in the first place...
boring introductions aside....I'm not doing well. I thought I was doing well, back in January and early February. Something clicked within me in early February --a spark so powerful, it could not be ignored. Now that I have given in, and started smoking & drinking & increased my scratcher purchases, I have --in the words of some -- hit rock bottom. But I think there is still darker and deeper to go. Of course, I hate myself at this moment.
But I hate you, just as much. I hate you for being you; I hate you for loving me, and letting me love you. I hate our love, because it means that there is something real, something tangible, even if it is just a transference of energy. A transference of "positive" ions from one lonely creature to another.
No, that isn't directed at any one person --none of you are that special. Instead, that preceding paragraph is dedicated to every single person I've ever felt anything about. If I've ever cared for you, and let you know it, if your eyes come across this prose, know that those words were meant for you. They were meant to hurt you, to sting you, but mostly, to let you know how damaged I am.
I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased. So Dostoevsky wrote, and so I shall borrow his words. I am, indeed, a sick man. I am also spiteful, and unpleasant. Apparently, however, people say that is merely me at my worst. Well, right now, I am inching again toward the bottom --that is, if I ever stopped my free fall.
Christ, I had a great flow, a rhythm built into this broken entry. But now, like so many other things, it has fractured. The magic I had will never be recaptured again. Normally, that is how I feel about most of my lj entries, quite honestly. At this moment, I don't care. I won't abandon this entry; for it is too honest, too truthful, too....Me.
I am the prose of a broken man. I am a philistine, to say the least. Or, at least, I worry about what my detractors might say. I wish I could worry about what my fans would say, but I'm afraid I never had any --at least, that I didn't alienate immediately upon discovering that they cared for someone other than themselves.
I am also a selfish man. Wait, why do I keep referring to myself as a man? Even by biological standards, I am not really a "full man" even when I am "fully aroused." Meh. I could have been wild and I could have been free / but Nature played this trick on me... Oh, Morrissey! Why am I not well-endowed? Would I truly care less if I had the penis of even an average man? I digress. Once again --and this time, to be overtly sexual and show truly how sophomoric I can be -- I have lost the main thrust.
I don't know. I could just write "Dalton Ames" a bunch of times. That usually, used to be, generally speaking, a good means of conveyance for how fucked up I am. That, and peppering an entry with a few Dalton Ames. But, that would not be appropriate. I am no longer in high school. Religion and sexuality have failed me, for I have failed them.
I'll never be happy or comfortable in my own skin. When I heard that cruel comment, and then heard how I compared to my then mentor, Art Hartley...well, it damaged me. I am damaged goods. I'll never get what I want, mainly because I'll never know what I want.
This entry has been retitled because, as incoherent as it is, it still has a point: to remind readers that I don't trust them. Well, I do trust you. But certainly more than I should. I need approval; I never got it when I needed it. I don't know. I don't know...Dalton...See? And suddenly, it is 2004, all over again.
No matter what I do, I can not help but feel filled with regret. I don't have the urge to drink right now, but I know it'll come over me once more. just like I don't have very many urges at the moment. Well, I am tired. Perhaps to sleep is an urge? Yes. Yes it is.
I have to get all the hurt out. All the pain. The sorrow we've caused each other is too much for me to hold onto any longer. Truly, there is something wrong with me.
The doctors call it "bipolar disorder." I'm not sure what I call it. I don't want to be real; I just want to be medicated, so I can go back to being fake and happy, like the rest of you. I don't know...
All these thoughts rush through my mind on a daily basis. But no one seems to understand...you shout and no one seems to hear... Get it? Why doesn't anyone seem to hear? How many shouts for help have I myself not heeded when I could have very well done something to help my fellow man? (I use "man" in the neutral sense, not implying someone with a penis. I mention this, because, part of my damage is my perception of gender & gender relations....but that is another can of worms).
The more I write, the more cans of worms I inevitably open. For the more there is to expose, to remove from my conscious mind. I'm so tired of life at the moment. I should go to bed, and sleep on it, but I know I won't rouse for at least 12 hours should I go lay down, and frankly, that doesn't sound appealing either...Nothing does.
I guess I have hit rock bottom. So many times, that when I fell on the floor, I drank more... Oh well. Maybe, just maybe there is a solution to all of this...
Yes. Increased medication? Check. Finding a therapist? Working on it! Trying to eat healthy? No. Never. I dunno. God, why am I such a failure?
Why do ya'll make it look so easy? who put their disease in me? I don't want to live, but I don't want to die, either. I just want to be me, and when I can, I will...
I think I'm done. Not with life, but with this entry. I rambled so much, I forgot why I came here in the first place...