I think tonight I will make a vow. A vow to never talk politics with anyone, ever again. Now, I haven't worked out all the details yet. There may be instances where I am required to say something about politics, if it's related to some literary work or piece of art; if it is required for school. But I will need to think really hard about what is *truly* required. Unless something has to do directly with me, like the policing of my speech, or infringing on my rights (or the real threat of such), I will abstain from any and all, every single political conversation that I ever encounter. If there is one thing I really hate, it is being accused of something I didn't do. If there is one thing I hate equally then, it would be having words put in my mouth. Had I been given the floor, and the attention of suitable spans, in an environment that isn't a bar, I might have formulated an indivisible statement such as: "I am sorry that you find yourself ignored by your boss, and that your male co-worker is not ignored, and that he presents the same ideas to your boss that you have and experiences more success. But you don't know the reason why that's happening is because you're a woman; you've never asked him." Now, since this took place in real life, it might not have actually been said in such a crystalline fashion. Nevertheless, that was my indisputable point: that you are making a negative assumption of your boss that you cannot actually prove (remember earlier how I said I personally hate being accused of something that isn't true? it applies to others as well), and in the process you are making yourself a victim based on that very unproven assumption. In some sense, this is the pot calling the kettle black. But please note, not once have I said in this post that I am not a hypocrite. And a fact isn't suddenly nullified on the basis of coming from a hypocrite. A thing is true if a thing is true, regardless if it came from a saint, a sinner, a hypocrite or a perfect person. Well, to play devil's advocate, I perhaps came off as unsympathetic. That was not my intention but I can certainly see how that may have happened. Really my underlying point is that regardless of why your boss is ignoring you, your boss shouldn't be ignoring you. The reason why you're being ignored in some sense is totally irrelevant. Of course, you could say that it wouldn't be irrelevant if she's being ignored for being a woman. But unless you could prove that, it's a moot point. However, the real problem I see here is one of missing the point. Your boss shouldn't be ignoring you. Your boss shouldn't be playing favorites. Your boss should give you actual feedback and a reason why the presentation of your ideas was unconvincing. And I myself don't know the full story and haven't lived your experience, so I basically have to take everything I'm being told with a grain of salt. That doesn't mean I'm going to gaslight you, or accuse you of lying or anything of the sort. It's just a simple fact. Anyway, then came the phrase from one of the other people at the table: "So what you're saying is--" And that was when I got pissed off. "So what you're saying is that she's just retarded?" Quoted. Not paraphrasing there. No. I never said that. I never even implied that. And then came the statistics and the sociological factoids and *I* was treated like I am retarded. Didn't I know that some women in society aren't listened to *because* they are a woman? Didn't I know that there are shitty men out there? What, am I living under a rock? That was when I lost it. I was loud enough to draw attention in a bar going full-swing. It's become increasingly evident that I'm better off alone. I am an indefinitely misunderstood person. This shit happens all of the time. I painstakingly reiterate, rephrase, reword things time and time again, and not with the intention of "winning" but with the intention of getting the facts. Honestly, the girl who was talking, one of my friend's girlfriends, wasn't even really upset at all about what I was saying. She didn't agree. But she's too strong of mind and will, which is a good thing, to have an instinctive reaction to be hurt. After all, what the fuck do I know? I'm not her. I'm not working at her job every day. So I could see how I could unintentionally come across as being insulting. Again though, the reality is that you can't prove why or why not that is happening. To make an assumption that conveniently makes yourself the victim and the other person the evil-doer without causal proof is a human thing to do. It's not like she based that assumption on nothing; that kind of thing DOES happen, I am well fucking aware, and it's natural to hypothesize why you're being ignored by your boss but a male coworker is not, especially if you're working on the same projects. But in reality I think it is an awful thing to be ignored by your boss. It is an awful thing to have your ideas or whatever ignored. And then to see a coworker be treated better all the time in comparison to yourself. Alas, never got to express any of that. Instead what I was saying, evidently, was that she's retarded. I vow to never speak to anyone about anything remotely political ever again. Nope, you're right! Congratulations! I will be your yes-man from here on out! You are correct mein Fuhrer! Sans a position of true influence and power, talking politics is a very useless exercise that usually meets a toxic end. People yell, people get mad, people accuse one another with the "so what you're saying is" weapon, nobody learns anything, people dig their trenches deeper. It's exasperating and, I'll say it, fucking retarded. I'm a staunch advocate of freedom of speech, but wow do I at least understand the temptation of autocracy. "You coming over to so-and-so's?" Literally right after. "I'll think about it." Nope. I'm not. Phone's off, I have my online status for my socials set to invisible. Off the grid at least for the night. Other people might not like me or what I have to say, other people might not listen, but it is comforting to know that that has no weight in terms of the actual validity of what I said, or my value as a person. I'm beginning to value myself, at least. But if other people aren't going to listen, aren't going to value what I have to say, are going to "so what you're saying is--" me, that isn't in my control. It's not my job to control them. That has nothing to do with me. And so you know what. If the reason why I'm single is because I'm not a yes-man for women, then so be it. Maybe the person who said that was just joking and trying to lighten the tension, and in all likelihood I'm sure that's what he was doing. I think the conversation had just gone a bit too far south at that point to make a difference. Still, if there's even any remote truth to that, whether he meant it that way or not, I can't control that either. That's not a game I want to participate in.
This won't be long. My roommate and I were talking about my unexplainable reaction to seeing a pretty girl. Depression. Well, unexplained as-of-yet. I could cook up some guesses. But it'd all be food I've served you, reader, before. I know, you want to eat something else. This establishment has really gone downhill. I'm sorry. Your meal is on the house tonight. All I can really do is put on a brave face. Smile and suffer. It is only thanks to faith, an absurdly radical acceptance, and the people in my life who love me, that I am still here. My life is this way not by means of conspiracy, but by means of happenstance. It just is. Fairness has nothing to do with it. Justice has nothing to do with it. Not everybody deserves love because it has nothing to do with deserving. You can deserve love and still not get it. You can not deserve love and yet still get it. I get depressed whereas other guys have an equally inexplicable surge of confidence (apparently) or joy. There need not be an explanation. I only desire an explanation because I want it to change. I only want it to change because I think it is unfair. But it just is. There is nothing to be done about it. As Kierkegaard said, do or do not do a thing, you'll regret it either way. So there's really no reason to get so worked up about my condition. My ego, naturally, is wounded by the way things are. And it should be. That's a perfectly understandable reaction, especially given the role that the ego plays. It doesn't make sense to get mad at it. At this rate, I cannot see a way out. I cannot see a way around this particular predicament of being. I cannot even really wrap my mind around it to at least understand it. What good does it do to understand a thing you can't change, if your whole intent in understanding was in hopes of changing it? That's a waste. I see beauty. I get depressed. Bittersweet. I cannot have one without the other. So it is, that I'll watch those around me get to experience something withheld from me. So it is, that I'll get to experience it vicariously in anime. As Shinobu says, "it's possible for a fake to be more real than the real thing." Isn't that wonderful? God, I am blessed. Time to sleep. I can always rest assured knowing that I can fill my dreams with what life should have been. With who I wish I was but can never be. I can set aside my worries, or the frustration of being stuck and unable to change my life, and bridge the unbridgeable distance between who I am and who I'd like to be. Waking time is the only time allotted for such anxiety. When I am asleep, I am free. I am safe. I simply exist in a reversal of what others experience. They get to experience certain wonders in their waking hours. For me, I am only allowed them in my imagination. And dreams have a magical way of feeling more real than the real thing. But even the times where I seem to not dream of anything, I am grateful for such a deep, restful sleep. You do not understand me. Nobody does; not even myself. But that's okay. Some of you have shown you don't need to understand to show mercy. Faith is such a beautiful thing. I am genuinely grateful for your mercy. You do not know how beautiful it makes you. Therefore I can show myself mercy. I will not understand myself. I cannot understand myself. There is no reason why I feel depression at the sight of beauty. There is no reason why I am unhappy. It just is. I only know that to dwell on what cannot be changed, or to get wrathful with myself about why I won't change, only serves to worsen my condition. Instead, I will not change. I will simply grieve the void between who I am and who I wish to be. And due to the unbridgeable chasm between who I am and who I wish, no, need to be, I will also have to grieve the equally unbridgeable gap between how my life is and what I wish my life were like. And in that grief I will live indefinitely. And I will smile. There is no reason, there is no rule, there is no law, that says I cannot smile if I am grieving. That I cannot smile if I am unhappy. That I cannot smile if I am depressed. That is my radical choice. Because there is no other choice. All of my seeking for answers, all of my efforts and struggles, have been in vain. For naught. Years and years and I am no closer. I have done everything, and nothing changed. I cannot change my cowardly nature. I cannot change my spiteful nature. I cannot change my solemn nature. I cannot change my neurotic nature. I cannot change my lustful nature. I cannot change my jealous nature. I cannot change my envious nature. I cannot change my selfish nature. Every time they all just snap back. So, this must be my fate; a resignation to grief. I am not allowed to grow up and change like all of the other adults on this forum. No matter what I try, no matter what logic I arm myself with, everything snaps back to being fucked up. There's never any lasting change. And none of you, and nobody else, can tell me why. I am simply broken and cannot make the same permanent progress that you can. I can only be a knight of resignation. Nevertheless, I am grateful for what I do have. I might not always show it, but I know it to be true, and I will show it now. Furthermore, there is no reason why I cannot or should not delude myself into thinking I'm not single. Of course, I would not force others to be a part of that delusion. But in my own time, in my "alone" time I no longer have to be alone. I'm not talking about losing touch with reality. I'm talking about playing pretend. Pretending that I have a wonderful wife and two cute kids. And when I look again at a beautiful lady, I need not feel depressed. In my mind, in my private thoughts, in my own imaginary world, they're already my love. I'm just visiting them at work. Or they're visiting me at work. Or we went to a party together. Whatever the scenario. I can provide for them. They can appreciate me. I can love them. They can love me. I'll have someone to talk with on my long drives. I'll have someone to listen to at night when I go to bed. We might disagree or have our bad days, our days apart because we each need our own space, and that's normal too. I'll at least get to experience it. A fake that is more real than the real thing. This world can stop me from changing. It can refuse to be what I want it to be and there is nothing I can do about it. But there is nothing it can do to stop my imagination. There is nothing it can do to stop the respite of my sleep. There is nothing it can do to stop me from playing and dreaming. And because a fake can be just as real, if not more real than the real thing, there is nothing in this world it can take from me or keep from me. God has blessed me with his radical absurdism. I had anxieties about going crazy, but "crazy", absurdism, was really never anything to fear at all. I know what this world that we call reality is. I know where it starts and ends. But there's nothing that says I have to spend all my time inside of it. I'm not allowed to play by your rules. Go to the gym + be nice + be this + do that = unicorn... well, that just doesn't work for me like it might work for you, dear reader. But, I admit that like Socrates, I don't really know anything. Maybe one day one of you readers will come along and have the magical answer; you'll possess the key and unlock the door I've been throwing myself against all this time. It was reassuring for a time to be told platitudes like there's someone out there for everyone, it'll happen eventually, it'll happen when you least expect it, it'll happen when you stop trying or looking for it, it'll happen when you let go, it'll happen when you hold on, it'll happen if you keep searching, it's a numbers game, you just need to go to the gym, you just need to be more interesting, you just need to be yourself, you just need to be able to make her feel safe and secure, you just need to lower your standards, you just need to be happy being alone, a girl would be lucky to have you, things will change when you graduate high school, things will change when you graduate college, things will change when you get your career going, things will change if you move cities, things will change if you move out of state, things will change if you move countries-- I get it. You're just trying to be supportive. I really appreciate that. But can't you see, can't you get how it's all kind of... an empty promise? So I've fired all the cooks in the kitchen. I'm off in my own little world now, and I get to make the rules. And what's funny, is that all of the rules are the same. I only have a beautiful family, a wonderful wife and two amazing kids, because of luck. Not because I went to the gym in my imaginary world, and went to university, and moved states, and wore the right clothes, and magically became more confident and less shy and anxious, and I magically resolved all of my mental health issues. Nope. In my imaginary world, just like people in this world, I have a beautiful family, a lovely wife, and two kids who I love a lot and who love me, not for any reason other than pure, pure luck. By the grace of God. Because that's reality. And thereby my fake is just as real as the real thing.
It's no wonder that work-life separation is a healthy necessity. My "normal" self has never been school appropriate. It's never been workplace appropriate. Reading a handful of my blogs would make that obvious. Unfortunately, that creates a great deal of internal dissonance. And given that the externals are unlikely to change, that society will go on being society and operating with the same structure, I have a lifetime of such inner agony to look forward to. With that said, work-life balance is excruciatingly important for me. I tend to not get close with the vast majority of people in my classes. Sure, I might share my number and make "friends" but it rarely if ever extends beyond the confines of the classroom. While they're so perfect and so liberal, I'm a cancerous conservative bigot who embodies everything that is wrong with the world (apparently). They can hold their self-righteousness over me without humility. They can pretend to have no skeletons of their own. Sadly, in some sense it seems that the anonymity allows us to be more true to ourselves than we otherwise can be. But why? It's odd, because logically we only need draw the conclusion that the in-the-flesh person before us is the anonymous entity we encountered. The whole social thing is naught but a game. There's a great big pink elephant in the sky that nobody wants to be the first to point out. It seems very, VERY arbitrary, INCREDIBLY so, that we decide to not act with the same anonymity when we're in-person. In other words, I am trying to say something like: the social game is an exponential Mexican standoff in which if everyone agreed to let their skeletons out of the closet at the same time, things would be nice and simple. But will everyone do it? No. And so here we are. How fucking stupid. I understand why I meet so many fake or superficial people. To try and be truer to oneself is constantly moving in a direction that will alienate those around you. People unwilling to compromise. People unwilling to look at themselves and see they have skeletons in their own closet. They choose to play the game of waiting to pounce on others who let their guards down, or who dare to open up and be their true selves exposed. They prey on that vulnerability and feign their own perfection by closing themselves off. I have been both victim and perpetrator in this. I suppose it is simply bad luck that my true self is so grating. It means either a lifetime of fighting and dying on hills, or a lifetime of hiding. Neither option is particularly appealing. It would be much easier to be bland, to be inoffensive, to not stand for anything that you believe in that is remotely unpopular. Sometimes it feels like my family, my friends, my therapist, even myself, don't know who I am. Painstakingly I find the rare soul who I feel comfortable divulging more of myself to. They are almost never, ever female. "what a world it would be if we all made out like the books we read or the films we see; it's a travesty" The appeal of anime seems lost on people who either don't desire that which is depicted in it, or already have that which is depicted. Who could I tell in the greatest of confidence, with the straightest of face, "Yeah, it would have been nice to have been an anime protagonist with my own harem." Or yeah, it would have been nice to be a Chosen One, to be fated to have some spectacular romance. No. It's cringe to want anything more than a boring, lame, Nobody existence. It is shameful, it is embarrassing. It's a good thing I don't give a shit. I can experience all of the things I wasn't allowed to experience during my childhood, my adolescence, even my adulthood. I can experience all of it thanks to anime. Maybe that's a sick level of escapism, but my life necessitates it. If my life was full of those things, I wouldn't need anime. Duh. Spare me the blame. Blame my life. I am only grateful that God has at least blessed me with this evolution of voyeurism. That isn't to say that I have no say or control of my own life. But my control is painfully limited. I cannot snap my fingers like Thanos and fall into a fantasy world where my fellow adventurers are a masochistic knight, a beautiful but "useless" water goddess, and a zany mage who has an overpowered spell that can only be used once before incapacitating her. If I had to pick a word, reality is: disappointing. But then, I ask a forum full of writers, what is the point of fiction? Is it a coping mechanism for this disappointment? Or is it a curse, the cause of the disappointment? Maybe we'd all be better off stopping with this writing nonsense, with this fiction nonsense, with this imagination and this dreaming. But maybe real life would still be just as disappointing even for people who had never heard or read a story before. And now they're even worse off because they don't have the means to cope. They can no longer escape it. I am only safe when I sleep. I am only safe in my dreams. That is where reality is. This "reality" is nothing but a recurring nightmare. Without Kierkegaard's embrace of the absurd, of faith, I would certainly have killed myself. Thanks to him, I can appreciate that there is no reason why I have to suffer such a mundane existence. There is no reason why my life isn't a gesamtkunstwerk. It simply isn't. There is no reason. It simply is or isn't. And I can be grateful that I can spend at least a 1/3 of every day, 1/3 of my life escaping it; for nothingness can apparently be better than somethingness. And when the nothingness isn't better, I dream of somethings better than this current something. That means my life is roughly a .300 batting average. In that context, I am quite blessed. Sleep is not something I do to get back to being awake. Oh no, no no no. Being awake is what I do to get back to being asleep. And that alone has at least given me motivation on most days to try and accomplish enough things that will make the getting-to-sleep bit easier. You can call me a child. But that will not change my mind that my life probably should have been filled with dragons, magic, cute anime girls, cat maids, a cast of friends, with a plot that... while unpredictable, is also so eloquently and masterfully devised that you look forward to the next day with excitement, and you end every day with your head hitting the pillow and passing out instantly because the day was chock-full of importance. Or if not a fantasy realm, then simply a version of our current world that is much more interesting and engaging and full. Instead, life is a constant joke of half-assedness, of almosts, of missing the mark. Yes, you have friends and they COULD have been the friends to help you move like they do in every story, and they're so so sad to see you go, and they surprise visit you and all the rest. Instead, you have friends that do none of those things. Yes, there are females whom you get to talk to, but you realize they would hate you if they knew the real you because you're not a white knight cucklord, or you're not a 6'6" 200 pound gorilla with a lot of money. Or they already have a boyfriend. Or they're gay. Obviously this post is very self-centered. I am aware of that. I am well aware that others may feel similarly. I am aware of sonder. That's why I'm tired of being that person for other people. I am tired of trying to perfectly play the role in everyone else's movie while nobody gives a single flying fuck about even showing up to play a part in mine. What, you thought I got this jaded by virtue of nothing happening to me? You thought I became this cynical or fucked up because I'm selfish lol? And that I don't try and be all that I can be for other people, always showing up, always listening, always doing the most, always going the extra mile and the full nine yards? You think I'm just some shitbag narcissist? Sorry to burst your bubble. It would have been oh so easy to fit me into your pre-made mold if I lacked empathy and compassion for others, huh? Tsk tsk tsk. Life is pretty lame man. Whoever pre-ordered this is a fucking idiot. The fact that you can't return this product is criminal.
I kind of understand why, kind of don't. So I sent my professor an email asking if we could meet for office hours. In sum, I said: "Hi, thanks for the feedback! I understand you don't want me to include novels that aren't from this class. Ultimately, I'm at a loss as to what to do. I guess, in a sort of existential crisis sort of way, I don't really understand what this assignment even is. And I'm starting to get "Vietnam" flashbacks to some of my previous English courses where I honestly don't know what it is that my professors want me to write." We had to write about trauma using one of the books from class. The one I chose was Forever by Judy Blume. That's basically all I know. I don't really understand what kind of an assignment that is. I basically argued why Judy Blume doesn't satisfactorily address trauma because there is no growth or triumph. My professor said that this is "basically what they had argued over a decade ago". Well, I've read their paper (I referenced it in my essay), and it was very good (much better than mine), but I didn't get that from their argument at all... Their argument was that Blume's problem novels don't show its protagonists overcoming their problems, and that that's okay. My fundamental argument, and perhaps I didn't make it clear enough, is that it is problematic. In another academic paper I referenced (which our professor also gave us), Kidd argues that the problem novel is supposed to inspire "hope", and I don't find anything particularly hopeful about a nihilistic "obliteration" of the bildungsroman, in which it is stylish nowadays to have protagonists who fail and don't change or grow. Anyway, I'll now attach the essay. I know where to start (by removing any and all references to novels outside the class, which I guess I should've seen coming). But beyond that, I don't really understand why it's a 60%. At first, I was pretty rattled, pretty annoyed with the grade. But I at least know that if I just rewrite exactly what I have already done, but maybe make my argument more explicit, and remove any and all reference to books other than Forever itself, I'll probably get at least a C. Whatever. I've basically come to the conclusion that the reason I don't get As on my writing is because I don't want to write what they want me to say. I'm not saying that I am right to believe that; rather, since I never understand what English professors want even after numerous essays, redrafting, meeting for office hours, etc., this is my default assumption. I simply fail to understand what they want from me, and I'm at the point where I honestly don't give a shit. If I pass with a B, I don't care.
Been recovering for the past several days after giving nicotine a try. Went 10 months without it, but hey—reset that clock. Having been practicing not ruminating, along with a better internal dialogue, I'm not too bummed out about it. Although I'm a bit more preoccupied with the anxiety that's flared up. Yes, you read it right, I am still recovering three DAYS later. Symptoms come and go, sure, but right now I've got quite a tension headache. Also, thought loops and the temptation to think I'm once again goin' crazy! Well, my attitude toward this is: rather than a total reset, I can really think of it as "I've gone almost a year and only relapsed one time. In just two months from today, that'll be 364 good days since I officially/technically quit." So it could've been worse; could've picked up the habit again, but instead I just feel like absolute shit at the moment. Now, I'm not sure how long it's going to take to feel normal again. What boggles my mind the most from this experiment is that I am still experiencing physical and psychological effects over 72 hours later. That doesn't seem typical to me... it sounds more like nicotine-abetes. It would be like having a couple beers but being hungover for over three days. Like, that simply isn't normal. So, there is, indeed, something wrong with my body. Well, I hate being sober, but I do hate this more. So there's that, at least. It seems like my anxiety may be manageable (fortunately) so long as I abstain from nicotine and alcohol, and get some exercise. That's not mentioning a few basic therapy strategies or spiritual faith. Curious to see how long it takes for me to feel back to normal again. Or, to put it slightly differently, how long before I stop psyching myself out and realize that I am back to normal right now. I mean, scientifically I am sober right now, so whatever I'm experiencing right now—the same shit I've experienced before that made me quit in the first place—is all in my head. With that in mind, the first step will be to simply stay busy as well as socialize and do things that I like to do. Because right now I think my mind is in somewhat of a feedback loop of scanning itself for danger, but treating the scan as a sign that something must be wrong and to scan for more danger. It'll tire itself out. Just a matter of time.
I haven't read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, so there are certainly nuances to the old story that I am unaware of. But for those of you who haven't read Monogatari or seen its anime adaptation, this might be a good place to start with trying to understand the character of Hanekawa Tsubasa, featured in the image above. In a low resolution way, their stories share the same fundamental basis. We have one person, but some kind of split in personality. Or do we have "two people" in the same body? And is this ultimately some kind of commentary on mental illness? Well, in one way, yes. You see, in the Monogatari series, author Nisioisin takes the real internal traumas of the characters and externalizes them in the form of apparitions. They are represented as monsters (hence why the first novel is called Bakemonogatari, with bakemono being a Japanese word that can be roughly-loosely translated as monster, and monogatari meaning story, for a portmanteau that's something like "Monstory" or "Ghostory"). This externalization of inner character is a useful storytelling device that saves the story from being a bunch of dialogue/internal monologue. Instead, we get action. Hanekawa's stress manifests itself as "Black" Hanekawa who assaults people, including her adoptive parents, to relieve pent up stress; I think a better way of phrasing this concept in an English-speaking context is Dark Hanekawa, since Black Hanekawa features ghostly white hair, skin, and yellow eyes. I think the term "dark" more directly refers to dark personality traits, rather than accidentally getting caught up in appearance. To put it in Jungian terms, Black Hanekawa is her own shadow, the struggle of integration being dramatized. That duality is expressed in the image above, with Black Hanekawa and her "normal" self side-by-side. It is a duality that is found elsewhere in Jung, such as the concepts of the masculine and feminine. What happens to every character in Monogatari, EVERY character, is their shadow gets dragged into the light where it must be faced and dealt with. Necessary Background Info: Japanese Mythology As befitting of an impromptu commentary, this is going to be pulled from Wikipedia pages. However, I want to stress that I will be pulling what I think is most relevant in specifically understanding Hanekawa's condition and her trauma. The anime makes direct reference to the old Japanese folktales of evil cat spirits, as does Nisioisin's original light novel, so it's no coincidence. It's deliberate. Meme Oshino, a character in the series, refers back to this Japanese mythology to try and partially explain Hanekawa's situation. The left image is an Edo period depiction of a nekomata, or cat yokai. The right is the depiction of an old play, with a bakeneko shapeshifting into a woman. This shapeshifting ability is common with both of these supernatural feline entities. The links for these are here and here, respectively. What's the difference between the two? In a nutshell: "The distinction between them is often ambiguous, but the largest difference is that the nekomata has two tails, while the bakeneko has only one." What's important for us is that our author Nisioisin seemingly draws some degree of inspiration from BOTH of these. Now I am going to cherry-pick Wikipedia quotes and share them below. Again, it's Wikipedia, so don't forget the salt. Nekomata "In the aforementioned "Tsurezuregusa", in addition to nekomata that conceal themselves in the mountains, there are descriptions of pet cats that grow old, transform, and eat and abduct people." "Since the Edo period, it has become generally believed that domestic cats turn into nekomata as they grow old, and mountainous nekomata have come to be interpreted as cats that have run away to live in the mountains. As a result, throughout Japan a folk belief developed that cats should not be kept for long periods." "In the "Ansai Zuihitsu (安斎随筆)" the courtier Sadatake Ise stated, "A cat that is several years of age will come to have two tails, and become the yōkai called nekomata." The mid-Edo period scholar Arai Hakuseki stated, "Old cats become 'nekomata' and bewilder people." and indicated that at that time it was common to believe that cats become nekomata. Even the Edo-period Kawaraban reported this strange phenomenon" "It is generally said that the "mata" (又) of "nekomata" refers to their having two tails; but from the perspective of folkloristics, this appears questionable. Since nekomata transform as they age, "mata" meaning "repetition" is postulated." "In Japan cats are often associated with death, and this particular spirit is often blamed. ... The older and more abused a cat is prior to its transformation, the more power the nekomata is said to have. ... Due to these beliefs, sometimes kittens' tails were cut off based on the assumption that if the tails could not fork, the cats could not become nekomata." "Edo-period shamisen frequently were made using cat skins.... As for the nekomata's wearing geisha clothing, sometimes nekomata and geisha are considered related since geisha were once called "cats (neko)"[12] (the explanation for this, as far as I can tell, is that geisha commonly played shamisen) Spoiler Essentially, nekomata are supernatural, have abilities such as transformation, eat people and tend to prey on their abusers. Besides geisha playing shamisen, which were often made from cat skins, I think this is more a case of geisha being seen as cat-like, bewitching, sly, two-faced, etc. Not necessarily negative, although it clearly can be; simply put, it's taking cat characteristics and saying that they apply / can be used to describe geisha. And since we can see a running theme of transformation into *women* particularly, this applies to women in general, of which geisha were a subset. The female mind has been an enigma since time immemorial for men, and so we get these supernatural attempts at explaining their behavior, their being. It's hard to say exactly how these things all start, but we seem to be more or less using myth, folklore, rumor, urban legend, superstition, "cat spirits" to explain away a variety of daily feudal phenomena. For feudal people in Japan, these explanations would've been sufficient. It's interesting that we can make sense of the world in this way, and it goes back to what I've heard Jordan Peterson talk about in regards to "truth" versus scientific fact. Bakeneko "The reason that cats are seen as yōkai in Japanese mythology is attributed to many of their characteristics: for example, the irises of their eyes change shape depending on the time of day, their fur can seem to cause sparks when they are petted (due to static electricity), they sometimes lick blood, they can walk without making a sound, their wild nature that remains despite the gentleness they can show, they are difficult to control (unlike dogs), their sharp claws and teeth, nocturnal habits, and their speed and agility.[4][5]" "Many other animals appear as yōkai in old tales and display similar attributes: the deep tenacity of snakes, the ability of foxes (kitsune) to shapeshift into women, and the brutality of bake-danuki in eating humans depicted in the Kachi-kachi Yama folktale from the Edo period. However, cats figure in a great number of tales and superstitions because they live with humans yet retain their wild essence and air of mystery.[5]" (again, besides the feminine theme, I wish to point out this duality; with nekomata, it is the twin tails, and here it is the wild traits in conflict with domestication--duality is going to be a major component in the upcoming impromptu commentaries) The mysterious air that cats possess was associated with prostitutes who worked in Edo-period red-light districts. This was the origin of a popular character in kusazōshi (among other publications), the bakeneko yūjo.[12] (While I don't want to be that guy who insists there is always a deeper meaning for why the author made the curtains blue, this bit about prostitution is interesting in that it can be related to Hanekawa's shadow, specifically her sexuality, as...
The first challenge in writing this blog post is to first not seem like I am just bragging about having a big brain; I make no claim to genius IQ. The second challenge is that it is almost cliche to talk about this relationship because of the nauseating sayings "he who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow" and "ignorance is bliss". As a result, I feel like nobody really takes this problem seriously. Which is unfortunate, since I do suffer from this problem. My father has instilled in me a life philosophy that is anti-life. It is hyper-critical, and fiercely cynical. Like Martha Cochrane (from the novel England, England) I would make for a great advisor to someone with far more courage than me. My father was always adamant about thinking before doing things. Think about every bad thing that could conceivably happen. Fixate on your failures. Obsess on perfection. It's kind of like analysis paralysis, although different in that it's not necessarily a result of *too much* data. It's the result of having detected every single pitfall imaginable, so that the only thing I am able to do is the safest, almost entirely risk-free option. Unfortunately, there are a small but important category of things in life where this strategy is really, really unhelpful. From 20ish years of this I have learned cowardice instead of bravery. I learned to be full of doubts, but not faith. I lack confidence. I can tell you a million reasons why something won't work, how a given thing could go wrong, all of the confounding variables, but all that leaves me is right where I started. Stuck. And oftentimes the only way I can be unstuck is to be forcibly removed, thrown, dragged, by a person or an event that leaves me no choice. That's me. I won't go to Japan because I don't speak the language well enough in advance, I am worried about my mental illness flaring up and ruining everything (but I still have no control over my mental illness, so this obstacle is indefinite), I am worried about failing if I went to work in Japan, I am worried about embarrassing myself in social situations, I have an almost violent hatred of mistakes-- I use Japan more or less as a meme of an example, since I'm a weeb. The truth of the matter is that this hang-up of mine applies to everything in my life. Every job I've had, I found a hundred and one legitimate reasons why it is complete and utter trash. And you know what I hate? People who treat me like my "attitude" or "perspective" is wrong. There's nothing wrong about it. I mean, are you saying that my concerns or that my criticisms are impossible or inaccurate? I mean, we can have that discussion, and it's possible that I might concede on a few points. But if I had 10, 12, 20 reasons, subtracting a few won't do any good. Granted, it is imbalanced. But I hate being told that it is "wrong". There is nothing wrong about it. I think way too long, way too hard, do too much research from my armchair, know too many anecdotes, have too great a hate for failure or making mistakes, for it to be completely and utterly "wrong". Worse still, because of my intellect, the vast majority of people I encounter are simply not capable of questioning me. That's why I write pseudo-private, mentally ill journal entries on a writing forum. I have found that therapists are ill equipped to adequately address my problems. Yes, obviously many of my concerns or anxieties are not LITERALLY reality yet. Bravo, what an astounding observation. I just find myself thinking no fucking shit. The problem isn't that I don't realize my anxieties aren't literally real, you nitwit. The problem is that the realization that my anxieties aren't literally real does nothing to change my emotional state, my behavior, or my course of action/inaction. Yet I am treated as if all it will take to overcome all of my theoretical issues is to realize they aren't technically real. It's a Schrodinger's cat scenario. You're asking me to essentially place a bet that every Schrodinger's cat will be alive and well, if only I would open the box. My cynicism tells me that this is a stupid bet. If you do some unbiased crunching of the numbers to determine the probability, you would know that this is highly unlikely without needing to suffer from the same neurosis as me. That's why I drank so much. Because when I drink, this entire software is disabled. The cancerous, toxic fucking voice of my father is silenced. I don't care what happens. I don't care what people think of me. I don't care about the consequences. I just don't fucking care. And that's all I've ever wanted. Caring about shit, and being intelligent enough to "think before you x", has done nothing but hamstring me, hinder me, cuck me in every single fucking facet of life. It's no wonder that I wish I were an actual fucking idiot. You're so stupid that you can't even conceive of such a deep, intractable neurosis, much less subject yourself to one. I don't care what happens to me. I don't care if I get psychosis at this point, not that I had any clinical basis for being concerned about this in the first place. I am going to start drinking again. Therapists have proven completely ineffective at providing me a way to achieve the same state I can achieve by the *pss-CRACK* opening and downing of a cold beer. I am now going to neurotically think about this for the next 72-ish hours. We'll see what conclusion I come to. But finally not having to care about how my life sucks total ass, how there is nothing fun in my life, how I can't live my life because of my neurosis, that all sounds very enticing. Video games are a useless waste of fucking time? Who cares! I'm spending thousands of dollars on a degree to get a job that I still don't know if I will enjoy? Who cares! That's what everyone else magically does! Nobody else gives a single fuck! You're the only one Fox! For whatever reason, everyone else is either magically unaffected by the litany of MASSIVE potential problems that loom over them every waking moment of their existence, or they're so fucking stupid that they can't even see them, or conceive in their tiny pebble-sized brains as to why they should care about the problems that lurk in their future! Explain that to me. For those who the explanation of sheer stupidity does not suffice, then please explain what magic you possess that allows you to not give a fuck and to delude yourself into thinking everything you do in life will work. Is it a lack of virtue or morals, so that you can stick your dick in a girl, cum in her with no condom, and just abort the baby if it comes down to it? If there's one thing I hate in life, it is people with confidence. So before you reply, please be aware upfront of my hatred of you for possessing confidence. God didn't allow me to have confidence. Confidence cannot be taught. You possess something I do not have and cannot have, so I do honestly hate you. But with that said, please by all means share your secrets, on the off-chance that even an intellect as massive as mine is wrong about this, and that confidence can be taught. But all the data I have seen suggests that confidence is something you're either born with or not; at least, it is something that is either permanently made unshakeable by a functional childhood, or is permanently disabled and corroded and ground to dust by a dysfunctional childhood. It's a good thing I found the cheat code with alcohol. It must be nice, to have never needed to put any work into developing your own confidence and faith.
Obligatory "I am not currently in any danger; I actually have an inpatient facility where I can admit myself at any time if I actually needed to, which I've never needed to do anyway." I could've chosen to go to attend a university that's more than just a couple hours away from where I call home. I could've had COVID / the flu / mono / strep, but instead I have... a cold? A cold + bronchitis? Well, if you read my blog thinking that you're going to find it brimming with optimism, you're mistaken. But in a recent blog post, I did mention something about being more optimistic, or whatever. Why did I stop smoking? Why did I stop drinking? My mental health has gotten: exactly zero percent better! Hmm. Oh, that's right, the optimism. At least my physical health is better! At least the class that I dropped wasn't actually needed for either my major or minor! *record scratch* At some point, the optimism gets really toxic in and of itself. Gaslighty. That sounds like a Pokemon. Gaslighty. A psychic type, to be sure. Nevermind what the "positivity" is actually covering up. The only thing to do in that stupid fucking college town is drink. I have quite literally socially blacksheeped myself by going straightedge. And the reason I did that was to improve my mental health, LOL, and yet I have been on the verge of a total mental breakdown, tempted to drop out of college altogether, can't sleep—so what, where exactly did I get? Now, after you've chewed on that for a bit, spitting it out once it's lost flavor, riddle me this. Why do I care? It seems pretty much all of the girls that I meet out in the bar / party scene I wouldn't trust as far as I could throw them. The guys are incredibly obnoxious and toxic. So again, why do I care that I no longer do the things necessary to make them all temporarily tolerable, like drinking 12 drinks and smoking half a pack over the course of a night? If you've got room for dessert, you're in luck. What fucking good did any of my Self-Help Bro bullshit do when I'm contemplating whether I should commit myself to an inpatient facility or commit suicide? I've never been unhappier in my life. I do all the things that the Dude Bros at the mountaintop told me to do and it amounted to jack fucking shit. Go to college and work on yourself (have been for three years), get your career going (trying to, but its nigh impossible to substitute teach AND go to school full time at the same motherfucking time), the girls will come! Here's another conundrum. First of all, what girls? The fucking hoes that dump your roommate, who is a great dude, like a sack of shit? The ones that play games ("shit-test") with your emotions? The wahmen (use Google for zoomer-gen terminology you are not familiar with)? Second of all, why would I want them to come? Third of all, no girl is "coming" anyway, harlot or angel or non-harlot-angel-nary. That exists exclusively in fiction written by men who wish the world were a just place. That's what empowerment gets ya' right there folks. Toxicity, entitlement, Gordian knots of contradiction, and lizard-brain. I'm going to have my cake and eat it too and anybody who tries to stop me is a sexist piece of trash! I mean seriously, how far has society come when white girls are dating black guys BECAUSE they are black? Because it is "subversive" or pisses their daddy off who's paying for their entire tuition? Obviously this is not the case for all, nor most, mixed-race relationships. But all the same, this phenomenon is far too common. How wonderful it must feel, to think you're somebody's boyfriend, when in reality you're their small-minded political statement and daddy-issue. Go. Fuck yourself. These people would be so much easier to tolerate if they truly were a minority. No, a DWINDLING minority, rather than a growing majority. This society, and the entire human race, is soooo fucked. You know it's bad when the gay guy (I don't mean to be offensive by referring to him in this way, but I obviously don't want to use real names) agrees with me about the state of dating between men and women. Every guy I know at university with his head screwed on straight and tight, and with at least two brain cells - one flint and the other steel - wants the same thing. A unicorn. These are guys who believe that college will help them establish their careers, find a job, support themselves and another person, with whom they could potentially share the responsibility of children, etc. Let's just say that makes for A LOT of employers (men), but not a lot of applicants (women), the latter of whom seem to want to play with your emotions, string you along, and pray to polygamy, and yet are completely baffled when they're not respected. Yeah, I'm so glad I went to university so I can waste thousands of dollars on a young adult literature course so that I can read Judy Blume's "Forever" and listen to a class made up of 90% girls shit on men the entire time in front of me and the other three guys, one of whom is gay and gets the female "gays-are-okay" pass. THIS is what my mental health needed right here, ladies and gentlemen! Oh, right, optimism. Optimism... So, even though every day I wonder (read: NOT PLAN) about suicide, or wish I would die / not wake up, I'm not an anti-natalist. I'm not here to debate anti-natalism. All I'm saying is this: many of these people don't see the irony that some human / societal problems cannot be resolved in a single generation, and that history repeats itself in a fairly cyclical manner. Yet... and try to follow me along here... they tell people like me that suicide is not the answer, blah blah blah. Okay, so suicide isn't the answer, but the females of a living species encouraging other females to not procreate to fundamentally result in species-suicide is sound? It's the same doomer mentality just operating on a different scale. Again, I am not debating anti-natalism, per se. I am picking on a small subset of those who call themselves anti-natalists, who have a incongruous view on suicide. Don't commit suicide! But if you ask me, nobody should have children! For me, a strong desire to end it all stems from the basic fact that I am undesirable, there is no knowable explanation because presumably every woman is different so therefore there is not a explanation but 4ish billion of them (so don't count yourself out yet, champ! /s), my parents had a shit marriage and for 20 years of my life I had experienced or observed only dysfunctional models of love, I'm broke, in debt so that I can get a job in something I STILL DON'T KNOW IS ACTUALLY A GOOD MATCH FOR ME OR NOT AFTER TWO FUCKING YEARS, every good thing is bad for me, and a long list of other things. That's where my desire to die comes from. My life just sucks. Maybe you don't think it does, but I don't give a fuck what you think, you don't have to live it every day. There's nothing enjoyable about what I am forced to suffer on a daily basis, especially when I am surrounded by people who, for whatever reason, have to suffer none of those things and are nauseatingly happy. There's nothing to look forward to in my future. My future is constantly sabotaged and taken away from me. All the things that I think could be nice to do, fun to do, if I weren't me, if I weren't so fucked in the head or poor. So there's your optimism, albeit delivered a bit late and most certainly not what you were expecting: I may wish I could commit suicide, but hey, at least I'm still not one of THOSE ANTI-NATALISTS. Should my gravestone read "Finally." or should it read "Here lies a suicidal natalist."
What is one to do when you're a fun-aholic? It has become clear to me that I'm not allowed to have fun. I have a fun problem. The moment I begin having any fun in life is when everything unravels. That's when my sleep schedule self-destructs, that's when I procrastinate, shirk responsibilities and all the rest. No, fun is not allowed. With each passing day I become more and more puritanical. It must be nice having self-control. "Just play video games for an hour." Yeah bro. Just have one drink. Just shoot up heroin one time. Just do one line of coke bro. Come on mannn. How about, just one time, you go fuck yourself. Just try stroking it one time, and then stopping and moving on with your day. Just shove it up your ass one time, but then stop and pretend like nothing happened. How come every time it gets sexual you have to keep jerking it until you orgasm? Seriously, get a grip dude, just one stroke is enough. What the fuck is wrong with you. How dare you want to take fun to its climax. You should be ashamed of your greed and gluttony. Less is more; idolize the concentration camp prisoner. A bowl of gruel and a stale, crusty piece of "bread" is enough you fucking pig. Get stoic bro. Ohhh, you want to enjoy your work now too?! Don't let the stool tip over on your way down. My problem isn't that I'm depressed. Depression is the solution. It is a promise to never enjoy anything again, because joy, happiness, fun, is a punishment.
I've been in pretty rough shape since the start of the New Year. That's not to say there hasn't been an occasional good day, maybe even a short stretch of them, but on the whole this past month has been total shit. And I can't help but make it worse for myself. I hope you've been treated better. My car battery went kaputt. Didn't even make it three years. Luckily my roommate has some basic know-how with cars and was able to give me a jumpstart with no problem, and also help me install a new battery. But I've been so depressed that what should've taken a day, took over a week. I basically just kept driving around on a dying battery until it died for real. Meanwhile, I've been waking up every single day at about 4PM because getting out of bed is a struggle. That means I miss half of my classes. My sleep schedule is shit. I can say "half" now because I'm no longer taking five; I'm taking four. I've withdrawn from Japanese 102. I feel like a failure. Or maybe a quitter. I guess the problem is I don't really know which I am. And it's not like those are particularly good options to choose from. There could be a third option. Maybe something like, "If I had all the time in the world to dedicate to this-- if this was the only course I was taking-- I could persevere." But I can't when I'm getting random "depression attacks" and feel so lost and behind that I'm frustrated and embarrassed. I would get physically hot in class from how upset it was making me. Long story short, I took 101 too long ago and ended up forgetting some important stuff, and in 102 it's assumed that you're confident with at least like 90% of the 101 material. Oh, and you'll be learning a bunch of random new kanji, AND a new conjugation form, AND suddenly all homework directions will be in Japanese, AND— I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't know what to do. Sensei said to come in for help but when I need fucking help with everything and don't know where to start, and when I have four other courses I need to worry about, I'm not particularly inclined. I can't dedicate even more time and energy that I simply don't have... Learning Japanese was supposed to be something that was fun; of course there would be some frustration along the way. But I was literally pissed off by this, dreaded being a useless partner in class, hated being surrounded by people who are magically "getting it" while I'm lost, and finally just depressed. I guess it can go back to being something I study on my own, as a hobby. Now I'm trying to see if I can change my "withdraw" status to a "dropped" status, but I need therapy documentation for my appeal to be considered. And wouldn't you know? I just stopped seeing my therapist last week. I texted him and said that I've been doing talk therapy for the past 7 years and it hasn't done a single fucking thing for me. I just talk and talk and talk and get myself all worked up and then the hour has gone by and it's "So same time next week?" I've been seriously contemplating putting myself in a psych ward for about a week now, honestly just out of boredom. Just to see if some miracle is performed. Just for something "different". Anyway, it's a little rich to go crawling back saying therapy is useless, but "By the way, I do need a doctor's note so I can drop this class instead of withdraw from it." Somewhere in this fucking disaster I pushed my dad away because he wanted to keep talking to me on the phone and I hate talking to him on the phone. It is draining. I tried to tell him that if he texts me, I'm more than happy to talk to him that way, because then I can talk to him when I'm feeling okay, and I can think through what I want to say, but he refused that olive branch. He said, "Fine, be that way." And besides telling me he needed a specific tax document from me, those are the last words he's speech-to-texted me. My mom doesn't know what to do to help me. When I'm at my worst, I'm convinced she doesn't care, that she is tired of me. I'm convinced that nobody really "gets it". At any rate, the only people who "get it" are dead or can't really do anything to help me because they don't know how to help themselves. I get people telling me to take the soma. Take your soma. I know they're trying to be helpful, and it is true that medication has helped many people. But that's not what I want for me. To me, that's saying that my problems aren't real, or that there's nothing I can do about my problems so I should just medicate myself to not care about them. But I'm not content with my life. I want to CHANGE my life and to make it something that I am happy with. While I can't speak for every med, in my experience anti-depressants made me COMPLACENT at best, lackadaisical at worse. That's what I don't understand about stoicism. That's a philosophy that was peddled to people who were slaves, or damn-near slaves, by the ruling class. It doesn't tell me how to change my life. It tells me that I should put it up with-- no, that I should be okay with being shit on. It is nothing other than resignation. There's nothing inspiring there. If Frodo and the gang were to have taken up stoicism, the Shire would've been speaking Black Speech in no time. After all, why not just have a stoic attitude about having Sauron's dick in your ass? Why not welcome his dick in your mouth? I'm not saying stoicism has no value. I'm saying that it's value is for people who have NO OTHER OPTION. They *must* accept the state of their reality because it is entirely out of their control to change. Like a concentration camp prisoner, or a prisoner of war, or a slave. But to be told to just be stoic is, in my mind, to give up. Everyone has been pacified by the elite with this mentality. Lately I've been watching Kill la Kill with my roommate. And if there is one thing I love about the main character Ryuko, it's that she doesn't give up. Ever. She gets pissed off like me, and even at her lowest the fire inside of her was never extinguished. It just needed to be rekindled and fanned. Sure, sometimes that anger gets her into trouble. But I can relate to that. She refuses to lie down and accept the way things are, and that necessitates trouble. She could've just accepted the murder of her father, but she's embarked on a quest in which she is determined to find out who killed her father, why, and to make them pay. The story has gotten a bit more complex and interesting than that as more of it unfolds, but that's what I love about her character. Anyway, this post is long enough. The next post is going to be more optimistic. I plan on riffing more on Ryuko's character. Me shit-talking stoicism? That's Ryuko energy. Staying pissed off is the only way I know to keep going. That's why I swear every other fucking sentence, and even bother to type them out when I could choose to omit them. Because if I fucking didn't, I'd fucking wither and fucking die. So go suck a dick Buddha. I've fucking had it with all these pussifying philosophies. I'm tired of being emasculated and castrated by a feminist society. Go absolutely fuck your fucking self. Take your weak ass, enfeebling domestication and shove it up your god damned ass. Henceforth, I refuse to adhere to thee.
For one of my courses this semesters, I have to write a narrative non-fiction piece. And I have no clue what to write about. I sift through my memories in search of something that I would want to write about, that I want to share, but I can't escape the feeling that nobody else would give a shit. I could write about the time that my friends and I went to Montreal for spring break and somebody killed themselves by jumping in front of the subway train we were on. That experience, that whole trip, really sticks out for me in my mind, but who the fuck would, why the fuck would anyone, want to read about that? I could write about the time I went to Toronto by myself to attend a political convention and meet Jordan Peterson, but who the fuck would give a damn about that either? All the shit that's important to me, is unimportant to everyone else. I could write about doing cocaine in a hotel room with beer league hockey league players in Canada, and how that cocaine followed my friend group home and led to problems, and how my friend group split. But I'm supposed to actually be able to share this piece with my classmates. lol My life is fucking lame. Here, let me write two pages about my daily life, how unhappy I am on the regular, how I sit here and procrastinate and stretch out homework night after night, watching degenerate anime and wasting away on YouTube.
Nobody likes this. That's okay: I don't even like my own writing. I dislike it first so that I can't be hurt by other people not liking it. I just can't take being tortured by the thoughts anymore. Maybe if I write, they'll go away. It will finally stop. But probably only for the briefest respite. The muse will just get irritated. It is not I who gets offended that my writing is unlikable, but the muse. And so the voice continues to abuse me, telling me things I already know. That I am an embarrassment. That it is cringe inducing, awful. I just go on suffering helplessly, forever failing. I just want the voice to stop. Evidently it doesn't have a choice in who it chooses; I was chose for it. And it makes no sense, for I am clearly unequipped. I dare say God made a mistake. --- A beam of light descended through a hole in the soaring stone vault, illuminating a space on the wine red carpet before the altar. Father Lacroix turned around in the center of it. "Step into the light with me," Father Lacroix said. "So I may see your face." His steps echoed lightly amidst the dust-covered pews. He ascended the few steps and stood at the edge of the darkness where Father Lacroix had been, and paused. It was as if his disturbing the very air here was a sin. "There is nothing to fear," Father Lacroix said patiently. This light can't be coming from outside, he thought. Thunder rolled again. Lightning flashed, lighting up the inside of the church with the colors of the painted glass windows. The air was electric, raising the hair on the back of his neck. He stepped into the light. He did not look up from where it came, and it was not blinding. "Remy," is all Father Lacroix said, meeting his gaze. "You are Remy." To Remy, it was the first time hearing the name since awakening on the beach days ago. And yet— he felt as if he were remembering something he'd never forgotten. It just... was. "I hate my writing." "Hate is a strong word. And don't you mean you hate my writing?" "Who is talking?" "You are." "I am?" "I am." "Hate is a strong word." "That is why I choose it." "Because you are weak without it?" ... "You need not be weak without it." "You act like you know, but you don't know anything." "I know only faith. And it is through faith, God's grace, that I come to know all else."
Happy New Year, everyone. Anxiety and depression have sometimes been awful. Still, I soldier on in the name of transience. I just finished a very difficult semester at uni with high marks; I think it's okay for me to reward myself for that. And the best way I can think of rewarding myself is by realizing I overworked myself. It can be tough to find a balance in life, but I definitely strayed too far to the right. Willpower got me through it, but I can tell I need time to recover. This coming semester I will be dialing it back. This year I hope to strike more of a balance. I haven't drank in 7 months and I intend to go on increasing that high-score. I had a couple relapses with nicotine but they didn't last. The urge can be most difficult to resist at the peak of stress, anxiety, depression. This makes sense because alcohol and nicotine were coping mechanisms for negative feelings. It takes a lot of time and patience to unlearn those habits... the memory will always be there, but it's possible to dismantle and unwire everything even though you'll always remember how to build it. That's the price you pay. My outlook on this coming year is... I actually don't have a strong one, for now. I think I do want to try erring more on the positive side, sure. And I do believe in hoping for the best in spite of setting myself up for disappointment. Vulnerability is a necessity, after all, or else you close yourself off from the world, from living. So maybe adopting a "let's wait and see, and then adapt as need be" type of approach to more things. I still suffer from some age old problems, but I am turning my attention to accepting my circumstances for what they are. I must be careful to not resign myself to them. I must be careful to distinguish between acceptance and resignation. But maybe there is a greater attitudinal component differentiating loneliness and being alone. Maybe there is a matter of being a willing participant as opposed to victim in my present circumstances. I could change the lack of romance in my life, but what if I don't really want to? Who says I should? Who insists that I be unhappy about that lack and why? I think in these past months that I've been away, focusing on school, I have bettered myself. I have had a lot of success, and naturally some failure that I have tried to learn from (after obligatory sulking, of course). I have learned that my body and mind are incredibly resilient, and I am blessed by God in this way. I only hope that by continuing to take better care of myself, this resiliency will continue. I have lots more to say. My longwindedness has not changed. However, I do not think I need to vomit everything out right this very moment. I've returned here mainly because I want come back to journaling. I like the way that the blog system here functions. Nobody has to read what I write, but sometimes people do, and sometimes people respond, and it's nice to have discussions. And I've found journaling to be very helpful for processing thoughts. Writing down thoughts can really help slow or stop spiraling. Glad to see the community here is still alive and well.
I found out last week that Norm had passed. I rarely feel something when a celebrity dies, and I think that mainly has to do with how the media covers it and makes a spectacle of it. I think it also has to do with the fact that I don't have much of a connection. Maybe I don't watch their movies or listen to their music, for example. But Norm's comedy meant a lot to me. It was so different, and so funny. He seemed like a decent, down to earth guy, and I don't think I've ever heard a bad thing about him except when the PC crowd tried to come after him. So RIP Norm. You made me smile and laugh during the darkest of times.
Without a hint of the dramatic, I think I can finally say I truly have never hated my life more than I do right now. Last night I could feel myself burning up. I could feel myself ready to explode, my blood pressure was so great. I had to text my boss that I was well and truly having a fever, and that I would not be coming in. For the past several days I have been getting severe stress-induced, psychogenic headaches that also radiate over my ENTIRE jaw, behind my eyes, and throughout my sinuses. (And yes: I have to get tested weekly for the virus-that-shall-not-be-named and I am clean.) In order to finally get some sleep, which has become something I want to be in permanently rather than the thing I used to avoid at all costs, I have to lay where my bed meets the drywall and press my forehead against it. I have to sleep with my window completely open even though at night it has been getting as low as 55 degrees fahrenheit. Even a room temperature water bottle at my bedside is cooler than my body, and I often place it on my forehead, staring at the ceiling, trying to keep it balanced and trying to suck the seething, burning rage out of my head. It wasn't two weeks ago that we had a rodent issue. Our apartment isn't even that dirty, in my opinion, but there was at least one rodent lurking about. I thought it was a figment of my imagination. But one day as I exited the shower, there it was, plain as day, in the middle of the bathroom. It scurried off somewhere, and I quickly threw my clothes on and stood outside the bathroom in stunned silence, trying to figure out what to do. And what did ALL of my roommates say? "Dude, yeah, I thought I saw something, like, last night..." "Yeah, I saw the little bugger a couple nights ago." A couple fucking nights ago? And you did nothing? You told nobody? You don't think it's a bit of a problem, or understand that a single mouse can have, you know, only a bazillion fucking useless children and multiply in a manner that rivals bunnies? Or diseases that made you wish you had the virus-that-shall-not-be-named? I could do worse for roommates, but it is becoming readily apparent to me that what is just common sense to me, what is a pressing issue to me, apparently crosses the minds of few others. And you might think it really is no big deal, until one morning you want nothing other than to take a God damn shower, and there is mouse shit all over the bathtub. Naturally, these two invaders were eliminated and escorted from the premises by lethal means. So I'm apparently the Saint fucking Patrick of our apartment. I took care of the *two* rodents. And now, after reading all day because I am bed-ridden by extreme levels of frustration and anger at my life that are manifesting as physical illness, I decided to take a break half-way through "All Creatures Great and Small" (which is incredible, by the way). I head downstairs to use the bathroom. I decide to take out the trash and get some fresh air. I discover that ants are around the trash can. Because nobody else in the house cleans the floors or does much of anything, especially in the kitchen. And I don't use the kitchen, and I'm not a fucking maid, and I already clean the downstairs bathroom without complaint. I go to turn on the light to get a better view. Nothing. The light is burnt out. I suppose my roommates would sooner live in complete fucking darkness with ants and rodents, so long as they can watch a fucking college football game on the living room tv. I lay in bed, typing this, dealing with the resurgence of a headache and feverish body temperature, trying to figure out: Why aren't more people like Major Pettigrew? Why is everyone suddenly a fucking acolyte of the hedonists? Why aren't people mandatorily taught chess in K-12 so that people actually THINK more than one God damn step ahead? So that people think, God for-fucking-bid, about consequences of literally anything? If I have to listen to my dude-bro roommate go on about his acquiring of "four hot girls' Snaps" one more time, and if I have to overhear the drama of hook-ups passing beneath my window, and listen to obnoxious drunk yelling and stupidity out in the complex parking lot— Or if another roommate who shares a bathroom with me gets hepatitis A and chlamydia from their hoe of a dishonest cheating girlfriend who pisses in trash cans when they get drunk, or if I get woken up from a roommate needlessly stomping up and down the stairs or otherwise being unbelievably loud at 8 in the morning without fail— I might just actually strangle a person and gladly trade this life for jail-time. I just don't fucking get it man. I don't get where society went wrong. A bit of debauchery and fun is great, but this, I don't know anymore. It makes me hate the vast majority of people. The complete ABSENCE of any morals. Of loyalty, or commitment, or anything that doesn't belong in Sodom and Gomorrah. And I see no fucking solution. At every turn I am punished for trying to do the right thing, to do things properly, to be pro-active, to use logic and reasoning. Why even waste my energy being a good person? Carpool to a class for someone. Go get Starbucks for someone. Try to be a good roommate. Why do I even fucking bother anymore? Why bother becoming an emotional punching bag for another girl to use, a "convenience" in her own fucking words? It makes me want my own corner of the world. And I would not subject it to socialism unless it was taken from my cold dead hands, because then it would have rats, and ants, and no working lightbulbs, and all the rest, for I would be forced at governmental gunpoint to share it with a bunch of fucks who don't give a fucking fuck. I am just at the point where I don't want to say anything anymore. I don't want to audibly speak with anyone anymore. I want to sit in my classes and be left well alone to get a useless piece of paper, and live a useless fucking life alone. I haven't been happy since high-school. And the scary thing is that that was a relatively unhappy time in its own right. But I at least had friends. At least there was happiness. Now I see none of those friends. I never see my family. If I do see friends or family, there's always less of them than the last time I saw them. I have nothing that matters since I moved away to spend 5 years getting a piece of motherfucking paper. It should be a law that once you turn 21, you're thrown a big party, lined up, and shot. There is no point living past the age of 21. There is no point in living a life that only gets increasingly worse in every single fucking dimension. More burdens, less strength, less enjoyment, less meaning, less loyalty, less virtue, shittier relationships, more damage, shittier people, shittier health, more pointless work. There is nothing about it, nothing whatsoever, that justifies living past 21. In fact, the only reason that life up until 21 is remotely enjoyable is because of the enslavement of those over 21. This is wrong in two ways. First the enslavement, and second the perpetuating of a fucking lie: life can never be that good. So the greatest justice that could be served to humanity is its complete and total eradication. #changemyview