it's 4:52 am, on March 14, 2002 - I hate myself.
~
I have this little problem of utterly hating myself right now.
What a great first line, huh? That just jumps up and does a little tango, a little dance. "Read me, for I am one of the hundreds of thousands self-hating journal entries out there on the net! Also, buy No Strings Attached because it makes you happy." So I'm gonna like, try and make this an amusing self-pitying entry.
No, but, really, I hate myself, my life. Or rather, I like myself, and I like my life, and I want to continue in this fashion, rather than the fashion that is based in reality, ie: working. And I hate myself for not wanting that working.
See, there's this thing. Deep down within myself, I have no work ethic at all. It's troubling, especially since I got a credit card bill for $218 and no way to pay it. I am not a contributing member of society! I am a lurker, a wasteful bag of water.
I have this other problem, too, of wanting to buy OZ on DVD. Little credit card, you are my favorite hunk of plastic in the whole, wide world. You're secretly in league with my brain and everything else, to get me in debt, but I love you just the same.
Life has come up and said, "you hate that you're not doing anything with me." And I've said back to it, repeatedly, "no I don't, because I am lazy, and no work ethic, and, hello, lazy, I enjoy doing nothing all day and not having pressure about it." And life stares at me, pityingly, as if somewhere, I should want to take it out to play, and throw balls for it, and treat it as if it weren't something that happened to me by accident.
"I didn't ask for you to follow me home," I say to it, and life just stares at me, with that horrible question that parents ask their children. What are you going to do with me.
I know what I'm doing with it right now: I'm sitting at home, dubbing tapes for people I love. I think I'm addicted to this little hunk of plastic called a computer. See, what I've been doing, perpetually, is living on spring break. --no, hear me out. I sit at home, do nothing. Once and a while I do stuff, little stuff, some big stuff. None of it is moving forward, because you know that eventually, it's going to be over and you have to go back to the real world, so you just enjoy being in stasis, no pressure, just a little break. Just for a little while.
My spring break's been going on since, oh, the middle of 1999.
This bothers me, in that I don't want to change it. Not the fact that I'm doing nothing with my little puppy dog life, but, the fact that I don't care. The crime of neglect in general bothers me, not in and of itself, but rather, the lack of discomfort it inspires within me.
I have not the capacity to see anything aside from my capacity for appreciation of other things. Yes, indeed.
Life is looking at me right now, hands on its hips. It's saying to me, "I could have been something pretty cool, because you're pretty smart when you try, and you really do focus well when you try. And you were given all the breaks, too." Guilt trip into a lack of neglect. Sorry, buddy, I'm not buying.
I say back, "listen, if I want to hate myself in a passive sense, who're you to disagree?"
Girl, interrupted described insanity as you and me, exaggerated. I don't know why that suddenly came to mind. --this is another coup by my higher reasoning functions, I'm sure. Everything in my life, including my life itself, is working against me, trying to make something change, here. Like, my brain is trying to fuck with my sexuality, a la Justin Timberlake, for example, as well as my sense of self-worth. I don't know why it wants me to be a social Catholic but it's doing a bang-up job.
For example, Brain says, "he is hot! and by the way. you want to sleep with him." I say, "no, see, boy," and it says back, "well, you're not getting that PhD, go for confused!" And I think, "am I attracted to Justin because he is doing something with his life at twenty that I never will?" And brain looks triumphant, because not only has it gotten me to admit I'm attracted to Justin, but it's also gotten me to admit that I want to confess.
Life is just looking at me, and has given up talking. Earlier it was trying all the subtle negotiation of a brick to the head -- things like "I love you!" and "we could have been so good together!" I keep trying to tell it that it's for the best, our permanent separation, but we stay together for the kids. My brain couldn't take it if we broke up permanently.
Somewhere in there, my emotions are giving off little cries of, "you're scared of being twenty!" but mostly my brain shuts them up for later. Apparently they're the last stopgap technique, the big guns when all else has failed. Nothing else explains it-- my own higher reasoning centers have repressed my emotions to use them as a bargaining chip when I'm least expecting it.
Come to think of it, that happened just last week, with the whole being-really-sad thing.
I want to say to all these parts of my whole that are arguing with me, "don't go knockin' on my door!" but they won't listen. The only thing that I'm still on speaking terms with, is whatever made me like pop music. --I guess that's my sense of. Of. delusion.
This conversation I had with Al, the other night, we listed off things that weren't wrong at all. that we did. And then later we had a drink in honor of being selfish. See.
--Now, see that? Me bringing up Al just then? That's my subconscious at work. They're all in on it. It's a big conspiracy. I want a fucking list of demands, okay? Okay.
Only I don't, because then my life will just stare at me with sad eyes, and shake it's head, and I'll have to say over again, "just because I hate myself doesn't mean you're bad."
~
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