I don’t know if I should. I mean, I want to, just not the major parts of it. of course, I have written about my resignation from work, but that has already passed, and honestly I don’t think it would hold any significance when it someone would read a book about my life. It would be a blotch: “….so I resigned from work. And this morning I am over it, thinking about something else entirely.”
But what would make sense to talk about? What would I like to read about someone’s life? His love life? I’d lift a finger –no, a hand, to pick it up and tear up numerous pages about emotions. I do not feel like I should care about emotions except maybe if the author is extremely angry or in doubt, because there’s a plot twist around the corner I’d love to read about. Career? Good luck with mine; I have no idea what I am doing right now. Is this considered a job even, typing about my thoughts in my underwear on my couch, with a bottle of water, an ashtray and a lighter resting quietly on a foldable sidetable? A job, I think, is something that involves stress and its effect. This insomnia I have been having is so different from the one caused by stress, because mine’s caused by HBO. Insomnia, the serious hospital-version, would be related to like, witnessing someone die, or something die, or really bad news about something irreversible, namely: diseases, a break-up, or termination from work, et cetera. Me quitting work is me getting back my relief. Money problems? I have no income starting next month but that doesn’t seem very stressful to think about and thus I sleep soundly from 4am-2pm, which is just normal because I have nothing in my life that is immediate or pressing or incredibly joyful from the day I submitted my resignation letter. Via email. And forgot about the whole thing. And I am ice-walling anything from the office now: emails, texts, memos, because I do not care anymore. I am tired of doing that, and I absolutely hate having to deal with some people at work who pretend to be likeable, but that kindness is the hook and when one gets hooked, he is screwed. So maybe here is the root of the stress.
I am going to brew myself a cup of coffee.
And drop three to five ice cubes in it.
Cold black coffee tastes a lot off-putting at first, but if it’s really strong, it settles and then gets better and finally tastes like the resentment I carry inside my body, and I am feeding it with black coffee. Better with a cigarette. Not with anything else, not even cream, and/or sugar, because then it would be awful. It feels like some kind of Harry Potter magic spell, like ennervate, and I finally know how it feels like being brought back from unconsciousness except I am fully conscious this whole time. This isn’t sludgy either, because I used a new filter, and I use a new one all the time, which adds up to maybe three a day if I am feeling very faux-productive aka anticipating work. Right now I am anticipating nothing, non-ticipating, because I have told you I do not have work. Anymore. Since yesterday. When I emailed the resignation letter.
Having been brought up with the proper amount of directions how to live my life, thanks to my parents, I have grown into this adult who is sufficiently respectful of all authority figures. Now that I have nothing going on except this thing I am doing in my underwear on my couch while smoking, and if this gets taken away from me, then I shall have nothing. And maybe I’ll cry or whatever. I cannot imagine not being this person I have become.
I repeat, I cannot imagine not being this person that I have become. I have grown comfortable with being the nerdy wallflower, who is really borderline misanthrope, and likes to think about things and pretends he is not very smart, sometimes, to drive people away. I have my means of deflecting people, and I have been successful. Interestingly, ideas get to me fast, and I think about how people think about my ideas and me and then I worry if they would discover me and then have judgments that have real value and then I’ll be very screwed. I value my privacy very much.
I value my privacy more than the privacy of my ideas.
Like this one: I want to be so attractive that I’d be the go-to person for people who want to cheat. I wouldn't have sex with all of them, but just that reputation would be nice to have. I would have a table on my own, with no one to talk to. Sadly I am not, and this is one failure of my gene pool. I could be that person who no one wants to hang out with, because he causes some sort of domestic disruption. But whatever, I am lonely already, so no use for that dream. I have reached my goal already.
Or this one: I do not like being alone, but I also cannot handle conversations. So I just want people in my surroundings, not to talk to, but just to accompany me without really consciously being there for me. They shouldn't even be concerned, and they cannot look at me. When will I be this rich? I have the mentality for it already; all I am waiting for is the money.
I guess I am not very good at focusing on things when I am not depressed or up at night or sober. i am now depressed, up at 2am, alone with myself, and drinking alcohol which I poured for myself. Now I can see the wonderful parts I didn’t see the first time I watched this series. This answers why maybe I like being single so much, not because of the hangups or the emotions I do not really want to have, but the total numbness to the parts of my life I would really like to experience but cant because some person is hogging the attention.
Also my emotions.