MOVING IN STEREO

DIRTY DAY

"You want explanations...

I don't even understand

If you need someone to blame...

Throw a rock in the air

You're bound to hit someone guilty"

Dirty Day

U2

The life of an admitted introvert may be exciting or not, typical or not. The life of an anxious, depression-sensitive introvert is a whole n'other story. I guess if you stick around, you can find out some of that from my perspective. Well, at least you can find out about this fractionally small corner of my neurotic world. Specifically, I guess I paired this life down into a few constants.

We'll get to the girl in a minute.

I have been an introvert for as long as I can remember. I'm not sure when I figured it out, but I always knew something was wrong with me, at least socially, maybe mentally. Fuck it, probably both. I liked people and parties and such but could only take so much of them before absolutely having to be alone with my thoughts. The social interaction drained my mental batteries, and it was nearly impossible to explain. Of course, the anxiety had piled on in my teen years, and I never seemed to shake it. I controlled it, maybe, but never shook it. The situations I found myself in would have crippled me with anxiety had they not happened suddenly. I was anxious about setting my feet on the ground first thing in the morning and equally nervous about crawling into bed in the evening. I mainly kept to myself all of this, for there was not a soul I could tell, except later, much later.

Depression? Not sure when that came to fruition, but it damn sure did. It was probably during college. It was not as well studied and remedied back then. Now there is a pill for everything, and if I could give up and take them, I might be a little better, or at least mildly happy without a clue as to why. I can't do that, though.

So constantly, I was in the pursuit of true companionship as an alleviation, as a way to overcome myself. In college, I learned to ply alcohol to function a little less awkwardly in social situations. Otherwise, I would have remained alone and invisible for eternity. All the little stories you will read are snippets in time, memories of pursuing a writing career, a soul mate, and hopefully, comfort in my skin and, of course, the girl. I can't forget the girl.

You may read a little and think that I have had the most boring, predictable, and unproductive life you could imagine. You wouldn't be entirely wrong, either. I simply believe in telling the truth as I know it. We all have different realities, and this is mine, my boring and unproductive reality. I look around these days, and I am not sure any of us know where we are going. I am speaking metaphorically now about life in general. I guess I am overthinking the big questions, and you know, the questions that should be in finger quotes, the "BIG" questions, the meaning of life questions.

It frustrates me to no end that I haven't a fucking clue either. You start screwing around working and paying mortgages and credit cards, and God knows what else. The years can and do get by you. They go by ten, twenty, or even thirty at a time, but it is never too late to get yourself back on track. Now certainly, I can't be speaking for everyone. There has to be a few. I daresay only a few, maybe only those with my exact circumstances.

People are no longer using their brains or imaginations to solve problems, or at the very least admit them. People are filling theaters every weekend, watching the same spoiled Hollywood turds on the silver screen act out idealistic fantasies. They are shopping for all manner of physical goods, beating the crap out of one another to get the latest video game machine at Christmas time. They will watch Tik Tok videos until their minds are numb with fifteen-second glimpses into a fantasy some stranger is creating for them. Folks will do anything to get out of their routine life, even for an hour or two, but they will never do anything to change it for good.