I'm so miserable that I'm now hateful. I see the world in shit-tinted glasses. I hate everything, and I feel bad for being so short, but at the same time, I don't care. I am trying not to take it out on anyone. Everyone is still so kind. There's this horrible banality at the center of everything. It actually burns to consider. I'll wake up really early in the morning, and I'll immediately begin to keep this inventory of everything I hate about myself, eventually passing out. In my head, I'll name what is ugly, or stupid, or mean, or dull, or mediocre, or unkind, or inconsiderate, or unpleasant, or off-putting, and I'll do this until I pass out. It's like the minute I wake up, I'm on fire. I feel lucid, though. I don't feel as sluggish as I have been. Memory and wit have been two things I've really struggled with in the last two months.
Sometimes, I wish I had a crush right now so I could be consumed by something, but you can bet your bottom dollar I find shit like that unbelievably trite at the moment, and also that it'll never happen to me again. Of course it will, but like I give a fuck.
I have too much patience for people. I'm easily walked on. I do not know why I bother.
That guest talk went fucking nowhere. It just wasn't happening. It gave me that awful feeling that I get when I feel like I failed at something, and I can no longer look at the thing I think I failed at. It feels cringeworthy, but debilitatingly so. I can't look at noise or emo music anymore (that's what the guy made). I mean, I also don't care, and given my condition, I can't listen to anything but.
I'm so fucking mediocre. I have nothing God damn going for me. I do not know why I bother half the time.
I write these because I assume it'll help a doctor if I have maintained a record of this shit.
I've been doing that thing where my entire body will twitch from all the stress that I presumably am packing down all the time. People are noticing. It freaks them out. It's been a year since I last did that. It makes me think of the expression "the symbolic becomes the real." Half the time, I feel like I'm making all of this up, but when I do that, it feels like my body is breaking down. I wonder how long I can keep this up.
I cancel plans all the time. I take everything so fucking personally. I can barely get out of bed half the time. I'm late for everything. I often wonder how this time in my life is going to look in a couple of years. Will these months give me the same dread and regret other months like these give me now? Will it be worse?
The weather is so beautiful. It's like a Chris Ware book. It's always snowing, and the streets at night will be so majestically thick with it. It's a true privilege to be able to be alone with it so frequently. I just wish I wasn't so miserable for it.
I feel so empty. Apparently, I look it. People tell me all the time how tired and/or dead I look.
I masturbate constantly enough to feel like I have a drug problem.
I'm surrounded by enough frighteningly intelligent, soon-to-be successful people to wonder if they ever feel like this. Surely, they do. But sometimes, I feel like I'm the depressed guy. There's a shame in coming to terms with that. I'm the guy with the emotional problem. I'm the *guy* with the emotional problem. Most of the men I know keep it way more together than I do. It makes me think of the one Matthew Perry interview where he argues against Piers Morgan or whoever about addiction being an illness. I always wondered if he felt shame when he referred to himself as a drug addict. I assume you always do.
I feel like a child next to Ewan and Sarah.
Enid is talking to me again. She told me that she worries that I think she is wasting my time because she is the only one who initiates conversation, and that I jokingly told her to shut up for telling me to shave the Struggle Beard. I was actually annoyed she would ask me that, and then even more embarrassed that I still care about her. I hate that I care about people like her.
