Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Eat Only The Chairs, Or: A Change In Personality Is Not As Inorganic As You Think

I see myself changing into a monster. There are tendrils, you see, off in every direction now, but most importantly, some of them have turned inward, strangling the source.

I have to keep reminding myself that I know how to be alone. This, among other feelings (such as the urge to drive anywhere at night, so long as it's somewhere), is a problem. It's a problem, and I see it hurting me.

It all starts with a statement of fact, I suppose, so here we go. I'll try to be funny for the people who just read my blogs so they can shit their pants with laughter, but I promise nothing.

I am a strong person. Despite what you see of me in text, in person, online, or what you think you know, I am a strong person. I say this more for my own benefit than anything else, but it has to be said. I find myself acting like a weak, sickening loser. I find myself saying and doing things that are out of character for me. I don't do these things. I don't talk like this. I don't have these conversations with people.

I find myself flipping tables over the silliest things. Unacceptable.

Next, I am a beautiful person. There, I said it. And before you all crucify me upside down for saying that, hear me out. It's not what you think. Admittedly, I post a lot of photos online. I'm not talking about physical beauty, though. What I mean is that I am mentally and emotionally developed in such a way that I attract people to me. I have lots of friends. I'm cool with this.

Granted, I'm starting to have my late-twenties awkward turtle moments in public, where I realize I have no idea what song is playing or who some dumb celebrity is, but I suppose that's part of growing up. Unfortunately, I have trouble relating to my younger friends because of this, and because I have very little patience for things that don't benefit me anymore (that definitely came out of my mouth; done denying that), and for people who act as a glorious, rotating center of some universe, whether or not anyone else can see the stars.

I don't want to be one of these people who have eight million friends on Facebook and post pictures declaring themselves to be amazingly hot. The internet is full of these people. I'm a different kind of person. Some people identify this way, as some kind of fallen or ignored supermodel that the industry overlooked, or as some bitchy nerdy diva, or some sweater wearing artless hipster. Some people assume themselves to be a celebrity because everyone wants to add them and jack off to their photos. I think these are my favorite. Eight hundred million friends, and not a single one wants to know who you are. It's a lonely existence. Adored by millions of fans, and no one ever says hi. Isn't that a bitch? It's because all they want are your photos, Captain Jack. That's all they want. They don't want you.

Anyway, enough about me being bitter.

I am over flinging myself about waiting for people to pay attention to me. This isn't a natural part of who I am. It's never felt organic. The reason it happens is because I sit alone and I think “Golly I need to chat with someone.” And then I start chatting with strangers and I'm like “This is awesome. I wish they'd stop talking to me though, because I hate everyone.” And then they do, and I'm sad. And I'm like MOTHER F*****.

The main issue to take care of as far as this goes is to get back into reading. I read, sure, but not nearly enough. Some of my friends put me to shame. Reading is free, thanks to libraries, and it's entertaining. As a writer, I need to read. Not reading and yet writing anyway is like exhaling without inhaling. Both parts have to be done, or your lungs explode or something dramatic like that. I'm not a scientist.

I will leave my mark on this self-destructive world. I will do it through art. You will all remember me. I want to write things that change lives, and I'm getting close to being comfortable with my style. I have readers! It's exciting.

I just need to get the rest of my life figured out.

Yeah, that's it. Nothing else.

I know it wasn't pants-shitting humor, but you'll all get over it. There's always next time.