hello self, please die

I forgot when I wrote this. I'd probably place it sometime after October, November last year. It's a draft that's been sitting on my archives. And truth be told, I didn't know what to do with it at the time. Perhaps it did not sit well with the theme or the mood I was trying to conjure, blog-wise, or maybe it stung too much that it made me afraid of whatever judgement people could assail me with. I realize now how ridiculous those assumptions were, but I'm sure you know how crippling fear is, and how lethal it gets when you put doubt and insecurity in the mix, and don't even get me started with uncertainty. Well now you know why I've been gone. Although whether or not this is apt for 'the now,' I can't be sure. Anyhow, here it is.

...

"She doesn't want to be happy!"
"Everybody wants to be happy!"
"Depressives don't. They want to be unhappy to confirm their depression,"
"If they were happy, they couldn't be depressed anymore,"
"They'd have to go out into the world and live, which can be depressing."
(Heated argument between Dan and Larry, Closer, 2004)

I keep thinking I lack something significant, like a puzzle missing a piece --make that pieces. I read somewhere that my sign tend to feel flooded with shrouds of varied emotions: mirth, anxiety, dread, confusion, misery, grief. That and that I, well we, fishfolk, at times don't even know how we felt. Now I can chalk it all up on ever trusty astrology, but what if it isn't that. What if I really am a sucker for depression. Dr. Larry or DOC9 from London Sex Anon has a point, really, who wants to go out and live when you could stay cooped up in your own world safe from all the harm and whatever shitty thing there is? I feel like that sometimes --make that most of the time. Maybe I should try pills. Like Calista almost did on that one McBeal episode I saw on a rerun, where Al Green sang to her in her hallucinations. I remember the time I looked up the word cognitive dissonance --and boy I sure felt pretty downcast few minutes after. I'm the most boring person there is and I hate it. I actually hate a lot of things. I somewhat hate that this post does not make any sense. It's dry. I hate it so much that I sure won't make use of any tricks or grand fuckn metaphors to wow the fuck out of people, not that I could or anything. Obviously, this is as raw as it gets, like draft dirt dry - and that sodding attempt at an alliteration just proves how pathetic I am/I feel.

I cried the other day, just random tears falling. I caught myself in shit like that often. And it's weird. A normal person would be able to identify what makes 'em tear up. I don't. Maybe it's because of piled up frustrations, a flurry of emotions all swirling in my core I can't seem to put a finger on which one is causing me one helluva fucked up time. Or maybe I couldn't feel a thing anymore. Maybe I'm numb. I hate myself. I hate being piscean. I hate being weak. I hate that by posting this I am admitting my own weakness and I am showing the world how vulnerable I am. I hate that I'm never sure of what happens sometimes. I hate to gamble when I'm sure to lose. I hate the new google logo variation and how it changes whenever there's a new fucked up holiday. I hate that I think too much. I hate it that if I write what I feel it will surely place me in a certain label, and that there would come a day when I'd be ticked off for being labeled as such. I hate how words leave a certain finality to things. How each thought seems to establish a cold hard sense of this and that, which is exactly how I always seem to feel; cold, hard, desperately wanting to detach, disillusioned, and empty, but mostly empty. I hate how, ironically, these stable words illustrate how unstable I am. I hate that I can never really come up with the right amount of vagueness when it comes to words and that that trick is something I've abused so many times already that I feel so fucking phony whenever I resort to it. I hate that I can't seem to run out of things to hate. I hate how things are never fluid as much as I'd want them to be, and that denying things or taking things back makes me seem so wobbly and insincere, and ugly, and brittle, and so fckn out of it.

Actually I am out of it. "Why do you care so much what other people think?," somebody asked me that over the phone, a few days back. I wish I had the same confidence he has... but I don't. I'm not sure if that will ever change - if I, if things, will. And it seems, I've given up hope that it would could does.

Attraversiamo my arse.

...

On a side note, I'm still waiting for the day when I can tell people that, as it turns out, it will can did. And boy I sure was full of angst.

I'm craving for a mint cigarette, blood and Joe Gordon-Levitt's dirt-naked ass in Hesher. Fuck, my mouth tastes like a paradisiac.