God. Dammit I’m so fucking shallow and superficial and just like everyone else.
I pride myself so fully on detachment and independence, yet my head goes aflame the moment I find out my ex is dating someone else. Fuck. What? It’s ridiculous. I don’t have these kinds of feelings: I’m a man. I’m a drone. I work for a living. I don’t care that she’s going to go slutting around like some 20s flappergirl. I don’t care that she’s going to thrust someone else’s child from the depths of her gaping vagina unto the world and start a new life—happily—without me. I don’t. I really don’t. I’m just pissed about it.
I’m doing fine. I’m staying active and eating well. I’m actually thriving. I mean, it’s not I’m interested in any other women, but it’s whatever. That fucking bitch already had my baby. It’s bullshit.
Also, I lied. I don’t have a job. I don’t work. At all. I’m just good for lying around and occasionally noting a passerby. I don’t contribute—I’m physically unable. In a social context; I’m sure you understand.
It’s just, like—damn. What am I supposed to do? What the hell can I do? It’s not like I’m in the prime of my life and I can just spontaneously develop a personality or specify some internal mechanism to generate appeal. I don’t have much going for me. I’ve never had much going for me. I’m going to die alone. I’m fucking pathetic.
So desperately would I like to instill value in myself. I could start working out and I could go back to school; I could work on my art and make something out of my life. But I won’t. I know I won’t. I know I don’t have the drive or the willpower. She was the only one who could make me feel like I could actually contribute to something: it was almost like that child of ours would become what I couldn’t. And I’m sure she will. She’s amazing and beautiful. She looks more like her mother, but she’s got such passion in her eyes. She doesn’t need to see me or the shit that I wish I could’ve done. She’s not going to dwell on her shortcomings or be grounded by her failures. She’ll flourish.
She’s so young and it kills me to see that I was able to make something so incredible and so more spectacular than I ever could’ve been that’s still—at least in part—from within me. If I can’t make a dent in this society, she can. She’ll do everything I couldn’t. She’ll divine the inspiration to concoct it from the cosmos around her. It’s so fucking difficult being a bee.
Winona Ryder in high school:
“I was wearing an old Salvation Army shop boy’s suit. As I went to the bathroom I heard people saying, ‘Hey, faggot’. They slammed my head into a locker. I fell to the ground and they started to kick the shit out of me. I had to have stitches. The school kicked me out, not the bullies.
“Years later, I went to a coffee shop and I ran into one of the girls who’d kicked me, and she said, ‘Winona, Winona, can I have your autograph?’ And I said, ‘Do you remember me? Remember in seventh grade you beat up that kid?’ And she said, ‘Kind of’. And I said, ‘That was me. Go fuck yourself.’”
I’d really like to take up writing. Make something profound and creative—even borderline poetic. Repurpose my days to revolve around some series of concentric goals which all centralize upon this idea of subscribing to the page. Rather than lie senselessly in bed for hours before a variegated blend of pixels, I could hunch vainly overtop a black ikea tabletop with an annotated copy of whatever postmodern work I think “resonates so well within me” and inspires me to pick up a mechanical pencil to scribble against a few college ruled sheets.
But I know that I won’t do this. Because writing is hard.
Writing requires effort and vivacity. If I were meant to write, I’d be full of experience and wisdom and sorrow and wit. Of these virtues, I have few, and only in irregular intervals. One day I may have the drive yet lack the courage; I may find the wit as I lose my woe. We all know you can’t plea esotericism without that cynical undertone of lively ennui.
Mayhaps I’ll find myself meandering about for nearly minimum wage when epiphany hits me with a car or something. I’ll be sitting on a park bench with my fountain pen and sketchbook when profundity falls from the sky and funnels through my fingers without question or reason. I’ll be filled with the secrets of life and it’d be such a selfish waste not to preserve my cosmic understandings for posterity. Surely there’s a reason that all these college twenty-something English majors and dropouts feel the need to condescend to me as though I could never see the brilliant infrared of life as they can. Because they learned the use of a comma eight months before me, or because their fourteen-year old self once burned themselves taking food from the oven when the fire of Christ seared through their souls. I know that I could never write because I could never ascend to such heights as they; my feeble comprehension of life and relationships with my admittance of failure and yearning render me a hapless mess with little hope of retribution. Rather than write, I should pursue less artful—less meaningful—endeavors. Like physics. Maybe I’ll just learn math instead.