There’s been a lot of drinking and all around bad behavior the past few weeks and the depressing amount of lying around in bed recovering from said drinking and bad behavior probably explains the lack of updates.
I haven’t felt this flippant and reckless in a long time. Like I could walk into work tomorrow and drop a turd onto my boss’ desk into which I would insert a tiny little flag that read “EAT SHIT”. Then proceed to go home, smoke pot and play video games until the electricity was shut off. At which point I would spark up various incarnations of the Game Boy until there wasn’t a single battery in the house, either that or until I died of starvation.
Of course, more than likely I will haul my ass into work tomorrow, slink into my cubicle and proceed to sleepwalk my way through the rest of the week like some zombie neuter retard.
For one thing, while the thought of defecating on some filthy rich corporate executive’s desk does bring a smile to my face, the glorious act of making a #2 is something I have never been able to share publicly.
And as for playing video games all day, exactly how long do I think I can trudge through Silent Hill 4 before the sheer absurdity of replacing the once unlimited inventory screen with a god damn item box has me hurling the controller at the television, smashing the screen of my widescreen SONY to bits. I mean come on, an item box? Isn’t it bad enough that I have to play through parts of the game in first person mode? I feel like I’m playing Resident Evil on the psone. Why didn’t they just say fuck it and make the guy move like a tank while they were busy destroying one of my favorite franchises.
I just don’t know what to do with myself. I mean I know what I’d like to be doing, new place, new job, starting over, falling in love ... But I sit here crippled with laziness staring out the window while the Siouxsie “Downside Up” boxed set plays on repeat instead.
It seems the only motivation I have these days is for a night out of drinking, or a day spent in bed staring at the ceiling, counting off lists of things I have lost or destroyed, wishing for things to be so different and doing absolutely nothing about it.
Except for the occasional fantasy of extracting revenge on the fucking asshats and morons I have (admittedly) willingly surrounded myself with.
What do you do when you spent your whole life wondering what you wanted to be when you grew up only to find yourself at the age of 31 never having decided?
Once I was a dreamer, I wished on stars and wondered what the world might have in store for me. I still hang on to some of that, I can close my eyes and almost remember the way I used to be.
But there’s a part of me that that doesn’t think I deserve any better – that much I know. I sabotage and self –fulfill my prophecies of loneliness and boredom. I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately, trying to trace it back to the beginning. But the origin of all that still escapes me.
It would sound typical to say that being a fag sort of sets up that type of self-loathing. And while there is some truth to the theory that we learn to hate ourselves at a young age, learn to fool ourselves even, in spite of it all I came out at the age of sixteen in a fit of anger and self confidence that I have yet to match in my adult life. So I’m hesitant to say it was being a fag that messed me up though I acknowledge it had something to do with it.
I could blame it on growing up the son of immigrant parents, coexisting in two worlds for most of my childhood. My mother, impressing upon me the subtleties of emotional manipulation and her constant struggle to maintain this impossible dream of American Perfection, leaving me no choice but to always feel inadequate in her eyes (my own eyes), always focusing on that next thing that could make her (me) happy until the pressure got to much and I just gave up entirely.
And though these seeds of doubt had been planted long before my father’s death: that too served to fuel this fire. It’s always there in the back of my head to remind me of what I took for granted, all the things I should have said and didn’t. Striking an all-too familiar chord- namely, everything will end whether you want it to or not. A sense of my own mortality that does not inspire me to leave my mark or rise from disadvantage (imagined or actual), but rather sends me into a corner of my bed, pulling the cover s up over my head like Chicken Little waiting for the next piece of sky to fall and crush my body like the really bad punch line I’ve always expected was in store for me.
I could talk circles all night about this stuff, but I know better. The fact that I said this much is sort of embarrassing because I do realize that there is nothing terribly unique about any of these things and even though it feels like there must have been some huge, epic, biblical tragedy that would inspire such an angry wounded loser as the one you see before you, there really wasn’t.
And the more I think about, the more it seems to me that there is no reason for the paralysis – this waking coma I seem to get caught in. Yet, even as I deny it or try to render it powerless with whatever rationalization I can muster up, I just can’t seem to shake it other than the temporary fix of a night out drinking.
And some nights, when I’m too tired of drinking, I let it curl up around me like a lover, keeping me warm and taking the place of everything and everyone I ever wanted.
But I know the time has come to say goodbye to these comforts of depression and self-medicating. I want to let it go.
I just don’t know how.