Archive for July, 2017


I have the same thoughts today as I did when I was 12…and when I was 14, and 18, and 27 and on and on forever. I think I have grown, learned some things, matured, but no. I am still a fucked up kid in an oversized body. My angst today is the same who am I what is the point in life angst I’ve always had. My vocabulary has marginally improved. My grammar has not.

I am SO SICK of everyone wanting me to be someone I’m not. I am fed up with ME wanting me to be someone I’m not. But for fucks sake, I REALLY want to be anyone else. I HATE myselft, every ounce of myselft. I’ve been through therapy, I’ve tried to love myself, but it’s like accepting that everyone shits. It’s true, but no one likes the shit. No one wants to talk about or deal with the shit. Shit is a natural byproduct of existence; we eat, we process the food, extract the nutrients and shit the waste. It’s messy and we potty train our children and domesticated animals as quickly as possible so we don’t have to deal with it. I am a natural byproduct of unprotected sex. Sperm fertilized an egg and, as my mother loves to point out that she chose not to abort me, I was born forty weeks later. Well, forty-one weeks. My mother loves to point that out too, like I was late on purpose just to piss her off. I was a fetus, not really sentient, but sure. The shit/baby metaphor doesn’t work for other babies and is perhaps a terrible metaphor, but I’m tired and depressed and I’m going with it. I probably shouldn’t publish this, but I’m going to because…well I don’t have a reason. Which is kind of my point. THERE IS NO REASON FOR ANYTHING!!

Every day I wake up and I’m forced to go along with another day, go to work, interact with people, find some way to fill the hours. Then I go to sleep and, if I don’t dream or rather if I don’t remember my dreams, I get a few hours of peace. Then I wake up and I have to do it all again. All I’m doing is wasting time, pacing the metaphorical hallway, waiting until I finally don’t have to wake up again. I’m not helping anyone, I’m not raising children, I’m not making any contribution to science or art or literature. When I die very few people will remember me and those few will forget very quickly. I’m not important. The majority of the human race is not important, but the other people manage to find a way to be important to someone in small ways. They have loved ones, best friends, significant others etc. The people in my life who are supposed to fall into the “loved ones” category pretend I’m someone else. They’ve created this image for me: easy to please, happy, quick with a joke, sarcastic, witty, kind. I know that’s who I’m supposed to be and I try. I really do, but I know that’s not really who I am. I am some of those things some of the time. I want to be able to fit into that mold, but I don’t and actually I don’t really want to fit that mold. I want to be arty, edgy, funny, smart, strong. I want to be the kind of person who is passionate about a band or a poet or an author or SOMETHING and knows about that thing or person. I want to be liked for who I am, or hated for who I am, but to actually know who that is. Instead I wait until my “loved ones” are around and then I fill the roll they want. I say my lines. I’m quiet and pretend I don’t exist when they’re tired of me. At work I do my job, am polite to my coworkers, and try not to get fired.

When I’m alone…I ache. There is this emptiness where a soul/heart/personality whatever you want to call it should be and the absence hurts. I want to fill it but none of the things I’ve tried over the years work. I can distract myself from the emptiness, sometimes for long periods of time, but I can’t make it go away because there is no point or reason for my existence. I’m empty because that’s who or what I really am. And I hate it.


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