May 30th, 2005
111746297733658216
And I never get anything done
I walked into smack into a concrete wall over a low doorway yesterday, and this morning I was so disoriented I didn’t go to work. It was probably half from physical pain and half from personal loathing that fostered the former. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do on a day off, I almost always get nothing done, and just end up feeling worse than when I called in sick, because of guilt. I stayed in bed until three, which means I more or less slept fourteen hours. After that I just did what I usually do to abuse my body when I’m down– ate a half pound of cheddar and watched TV. It’s now ten and I guess I’m going to bed soon. It’s been raining constantly since last night, so I guess someone could say this makes me feel worse, or justified, or something.
I feel rotten for a lot of reasons. I hate myself for being so unprofessional and doing such a bad job of handing myself at work. I make bad judgment calls, I’m weak, and I always have something to complain about. I can’t handle any kind of relationship. Because whether I screw up in action or not is just a matter of timing and alcohol, because all I am is lonely. I hate how I’m so starved for attention in general, and drinking just makes it all the more obvious. I want to feel pure, and good about myself, knowing that I’m a good person, and I do good things. I don’t want to feel tempted and drawn into sloth, gluttony, and conceit.
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I want to make beautiful things, but when I have the time presented to do that, I just do mindless things to fill up the space because it’s too depressing to get started and I don’t feel motivated. I’m tired virtually all of the time, just emotionally, which makes me tired physically. I’d say it was my circumstances, but the truth is I’m probably just tired with myself. Everything that sucks in my life is my fault and of my making. And just whining like this shows how lame and self-centered I really am, because even my tired, dissatisfied ennui is like indescribable levels of comfort and peace greater than probably half of the world even has a chance to experience.
I feel like I’m making no progress whatsoever in my life, because all I do is abuse and fuck up every relationship I can create. Interest rates go up and I slip farther into debt, and scores of follow up emails go unwritten or end up heartlessly responded. I have tons of phone numbers, but how many of those people know me for what I really am and aren’t disgusted by it?
All I see are warped, distant images of what I think would make me happy, and they float on clouds so far away I can obsess and dream about being satisfied if I had them, but whenever they drift close enough to become reality they just grow tainted and hollow from my the poison within that creeps out through my skin.
