Fuck Subjects
Of all the disjointed, hopeless narcissisticly self-indulgent thoughts racing through my head right now, I opt to post these on the internet. Perhaps that others will read and take pity on me. Who knows. Read at your own peril.
It is five-thirty, and I'm awake after a maximum of three hours of sleep. I will not be returning to sleep for at least three hours, I estimate. I shake near uncontrollably, but I'm not the slightest bit cold. I am not on drugs. I am not suffering from delirium tremens. I am simply shaking so bad it is a goddamn chore to type, and I find myself struggling against the keyboard to maintain proper spelling. My mind is working perfectly. I can form thoughts, I can correct my typos, I even typed delirium into my computer's built-in dictionary to make sure it was spelled correctly (it wasn't. I fixed it.)
I submit to you a man, awake from what he must call a nightmare, because otherwise why would he be like this? What, if not a nightmare, would leave him helpless, leave him awake with the first breath he takes, knowing full well that being this awake is a semi-permanent condition. There will be no rolling over and sleeping again; there will be a long walk around the neighborhood in the early morning sun. Maybe later there will be sleep. We should all be so lucky!
All I feel at this moment is alone. Isolated. Alienated. Othered. It sucks.
At the forefront of my mind, I try not to think about it, but it just won't go away, is how badly I would do at Guitar Hero if I were to try to play. The thought is so absurd I love it and hate it and hey I stopped shaking ok there we go.
The cure for this condition is to be hugged. I envy the parent who has a nightmare about their child, and rushes off to their room to check on them. They will find them lying there, safe and sound, sleeping deeply as children do, and they can breathe easy. There's the visual stimulus to tell them that, for now, all is right in the world. You get back into bed, and the sheets are still warm from your presence, but even better than that, there's someone you love lying next to you. There's the kinetic stimulus. What the fuck more could you need?
I want someone to touch me. I want to know that someone wants to touch me, that my life won't be 60 more years of mooching hugs off people happier than me.
I like to think that I'm generally a happy person. I really do. I honestly don't know if I actually am or not, though.
Instead of that comfort, I got nothing. The only girl who I've really known to love me the way I want to be loved is, I don't know, 4,000 miles away. And she's having the time of her life. And she's doing awesome things. She's got clubs, pubs, and train hubs (I thought that was clever at first. The more I look at it, the stupider it seems, and the stupider I seem. Oh well.) Who the fuck am I to bother her when she's having such a good time?
Actually, let's be honest here. She's been calling me, and I fucked it up. I'm not sure how, exactly, or why, exactly, but sure as sunshine on July afternoon, I fucked it up. Now instead of calls, I get nightmares that leave me a shaking, insecure wreck. It's a talent of mine, really. For an encore, I pull a rabbit out of my hat.
I wish I knew how to drink, but I grew up being afraid of alcohol. It runs on both sides of my family. On my dad's side, his dad was an emotionally abusive maintenance drinker. His brother, my dad's brother, lost everything, went from working at Stanford, in positions that get grander the farther down the timestream they are to living in Rogue River, Oregon. I haven't seen him in years. All I can remember is the beer belly, the bloodshot eyes, the broken furniture.
On my mother's side, her father was a physically, verbally, emotionally abusive child molestor, a bigamist, and likely a rape survivor seventy-five years before the Catholic scandal broke. Fucking incredible, huh? And to think, I'm just giving this kind of human drama away on the internet. What a deal.
So yeah, I wish I could just drink away the pain, like that ever actually works, but I never learned how. Wasn't cool enough in high school to go to parties, and I'm not cool enough to go to them now. But holy shit, could I tell you how to find a good tequila, a good whiskey. My theoretical palate is less experienced when it comes to wine, but I've learned how to savor it, to swirl it around so all the flavors come out. I know that you need a snifter to really appreciate the heady bouquet of a good brandy.
Thank you, GQ.
Can you beleive that? I've been getting GQ for years, and I'm still not cool. I must not make enough money.
I feel like it's time for me to start fantasizing again about Alaska, because living in California and Arizona's just leaving me unfulfilled. There's too many people, most of them are assholes, and you can't see the stars. Not that I can see stars without glasses, anyway.
I dislike having to wear glasses, did you know that? Not because I'm vain or whatever, but because it's another lair between me and the outside world. See that sign? Nope! Need my fucking glasses! Contacts suck too, for the same reason.
Part of the reason I want to go to Alaska, and hey, this is an exclusive. Here I say it, for the first time ever, is because too many people know me here. As much as I love California, as much as I will always think of it as my home, and as awesome as it is that all my friends and my cool stuff is here, it's necessarily the seat of all my failed dreams. I was never a football star, never one of the "popular" kids in high school, never one of the ones who got to travel the country or the world. And those aren't even necessarily my dreams. The ones more essential to my being, getting published, getting literary recognition. Still haven't happened. And I don't care how young I am, even doing shit like submitting my work to contests or school publications didn't pan out. I haven't gotten accepted to any of ASU's publications, and by the end of my high school experience, none of my shit was in Mindframes. I suck at other people's dreams, and I suck at my own to boot. So here I am, watching Eddie with his secure future job in his dad's development firm, or whatever it is exactly, watching Matt with his open-ended potential, watching Mike be happy working at LaserQuest and just generally being a sassy motherfucker, and I can't take it. It's probably just my shitty mood right now, but everywhere I look, someone's pulling ahead and I'm getting left behind. My friends are maturing, and blooming, and I don't know if I can take it. Maybe if I go to Alaska I can just leave it all behind and forget what I was supposed to be from eighth grade on and just live as nobody in peace. Instead of being alone, I'll have solitude. Instead of a feeling of alienation, there'll be the comfort of knowing that I chose this theoretical life for myself. I'll learn to be lonely, and yes, that was a reference to The Phantom of the Opera.
There's never anyone around to kiss you and to hold you when you really need it. Somebody oughta look into this, 'cause I gotta say, I'm thinking of complaining to management.
Forget it. I've got nothing important to say. I'm going on that walk.
Thanks for reading the logorrhea, if you managed to get this far.
It is five-thirty, and I'm awake after a maximum of three hours of sleep. I will not be returning to sleep for at least three hours, I estimate. I shake near uncontrollably, but I'm not the slightest bit cold. I am not on drugs. I am not suffering from delirium tremens. I am simply shaking so bad it is a goddamn chore to type, and I find myself struggling against the keyboard to maintain proper spelling. My mind is working perfectly. I can form thoughts, I can correct my typos, I even typed delirium into my computer's built-in dictionary to make sure it was spelled correctly (it wasn't. I fixed it.)
I submit to you a man, awake from what he must call a nightmare, because otherwise why would he be like this? What, if not a nightmare, would leave him helpless, leave him awake with the first breath he takes, knowing full well that being this awake is a semi-permanent condition. There will be no rolling over and sleeping again; there will be a long walk around the neighborhood in the early morning sun. Maybe later there will be sleep. We should all be so lucky!
All I feel at this moment is alone. Isolated. Alienated. Othered. It sucks.
At the forefront of my mind, I try not to think about it, but it just won't go away, is how badly I would do at Guitar Hero if I were to try to play. The thought is so absurd I love it and hate it and hey I stopped shaking ok there we go.
The cure for this condition is to be hugged. I envy the parent who has a nightmare about their child, and rushes off to their room to check on them. They will find them lying there, safe and sound, sleeping deeply as children do, and they can breathe easy. There's the visual stimulus to tell them that, for now, all is right in the world. You get back into bed, and the sheets are still warm from your presence, but even better than that, there's someone you love lying next to you. There's the kinetic stimulus. What the fuck more could you need?
I want someone to touch me. I want to know that someone wants to touch me, that my life won't be 60 more years of mooching hugs off people happier than me.
I like to think that I'm generally a happy person. I really do. I honestly don't know if I actually am or not, though.
Instead of that comfort, I got nothing. The only girl who I've really known to love me the way I want to be loved is, I don't know, 4,000 miles away. And she's having the time of her life. And she's doing awesome things. She's got clubs, pubs, and train hubs (I thought that was clever at first. The more I look at it, the stupider it seems, and the stupider I seem. Oh well.) Who the fuck am I to bother her when she's having such a good time?
Actually, let's be honest here. She's been calling me, and I fucked it up. I'm not sure how, exactly, or why, exactly, but sure as sunshine on July afternoon, I fucked it up. Now instead of calls, I get nightmares that leave me a shaking, insecure wreck. It's a talent of mine, really. For an encore, I pull a rabbit out of my hat.
I wish I knew how to drink, but I grew up being afraid of alcohol. It runs on both sides of my family. On my dad's side, his dad was an emotionally abusive maintenance drinker. His brother, my dad's brother, lost everything, went from working at Stanford, in positions that get grander the farther down the timestream they are to living in Rogue River, Oregon. I haven't seen him in years. All I can remember is the beer belly, the bloodshot eyes, the broken furniture.
On my mother's side, her father was a physically, verbally, emotionally abusive child molestor, a bigamist, and likely a rape survivor seventy-five years before the Catholic scandal broke. Fucking incredible, huh? And to think, I'm just giving this kind of human drama away on the internet. What a deal.
So yeah, I wish I could just drink away the pain, like that ever actually works, but I never learned how. Wasn't cool enough in high school to go to parties, and I'm not cool enough to go to them now. But holy shit, could I tell you how to find a good tequila, a good whiskey. My theoretical palate is less experienced when it comes to wine, but I've learned how to savor it, to swirl it around so all the flavors come out. I know that you need a snifter to really appreciate the heady bouquet of a good brandy.
Thank you, GQ.
Can you beleive that? I've been getting GQ for years, and I'm still not cool. I must not make enough money.
I feel like it's time for me to start fantasizing again about Alaska, because living in California and Arizona's just leaving me unfulfilled. There's too many people, most of them are assholes, and you can't see the stars. Not that I can see stars without glasses, anyway.
I dislike having to wear glasses, did you know that? Not because I'm vain or whatever, but because it's another lair between me and the outside world. See that sign? Nope! Need my fucking glasses! Contacts suck too, for the same reason.
Part of the reason I want to go to Alaska, and hey, this is an exclusive. Here I say it, for the first time ever, is because too many people know me here. As much as I love California, as much as I will always think of it as my home, and as awesome as it is that all my friends and my cool stuff is here, it's necessarily the seat of all my failed dreams. I was never a football star, never one of the "popular" kids in high school, never one of the ones who got to travel the country or the world. And those aren't even necessarily my dreams. The ones more essential to my being, getting published, getting literary recognition. Still haven't happened. And I don't care how young I am, even doing shit like submitting my work to contests or school publications didn't pan out. I haven't gotten accepted to any of ASU's publications, and by the end of my high school experience, none of my shit was in Mindframes. I suck at other people's dreams, and I suck at my own to boot. So here I am, watching Eddie with his secure future job in his dad's development firm, or whatever it is exactly, watching Matt with his open-ended potential, watching Mike be happy working at LaserQuest and just generally being a sassy motherfucker, and I can't take it. It's probably just my shitty mood right now, but everywhere I look, someone's pulling ahead and I'm getting left behind. My friends are maturing, and blooming, and I don't know if I can take it. Maybe if I go to Alaska I can just leave it all behind and forget what I was supposed to be from eighth grade on and just live as nobody in peace. Instead of being alone, I'll have solitude. Instead of a feeling of alienation, there'll be the comfort of knowing that I chose this theoretical life for myself. I'll learn to be lonely, and yes, that was a reference to The Phantom of the Opera.
There's never anyone around to kiss you and to hold you when you really need it. Somebody oughta look into this, 'cause I gotta say, I'm thinking of complaining to management.
Forget it. I've got nothing important to say. I'm going on that walk.
Thanks for reading the logorrhea, if you managed to get this far.