An Inhuman Condition

I’m spending the morning writing to myself trying to finish up some ongoing projects and finalize the formatting for the Lulu book in which this will ultimately be the title essay. For specific reasons I’ve yet to process in my own brain, this is the only thing that I am able to do today. I am not writing this out of any sense of enjoyment or a duty to finish the product, but because I just need to get out of my head and focus on something before I gnaw out any last bit of sanity that might remain in the dank crevasse. I would much rather spend my time chatting at a coffee shop with some good friends or discussing the issues currently pressing me into this position, but the options are not available.

It’s early enough in the morning that nothing is happening (even online), and I feel quite isolated at this moment. Thus I write. That’s the best part about this little farce of a hobby. It’s a method of communication to the outside world when nothing else is available. It is a way to think to myself and yet say something all the while. Unlike spoken word I have the opportunity to take time, formulate my thoughts, and edit the hot shit out of them. If I decide I really don’t want to say anything about my dick warts or my penchant for the taste of fresh-boiled kitten hearts, I can remove all that nonsense and leave you with whatever is left: the little bits of this twisted mind I’m comfortable sharing.

Because this is a hobby of mine and I use it in this way, it is not often that I am actually able to share my gooey-warm and vulnerable center with others. I think Fuck Nothing was one of the first times I actually tried to shed some light on what goes through my head, and the end result was a very depressing story that hurts a bit every time I read it. Reading it for me takes me right back there. It’s a time machine into my mind then, an image of how I felt, and it brings back every ounce of hurt and depression that accompanied it. I can only think of one person who has seen deep down into the core of this machine, and it was something amazing for me while it lasted.

Hidden up here are the anger, sadness, rage and regrets. They bunk with the self-loathing insecurities and isolating tendencies. It all swirls and bubbles internal while I try desperately to function and communicate with others. I try to be a good friend, attractive mate, helpful co-worker, but most of the time I feel I can’t do that without hiding things. I know the odd and peculiar leak out, and I’m thankful that there are people who tolerate and even some who enjoy my eccentricities because I know they can be tiresome.

I’ve said it before, but I really can’t be around too many people at once. It’s not good for me. Every time I burst with anal-sex-cock-in-a-dog-fucking-babies-for-sport mania, it’s because I’m very uncomfortable in the current situation and would like to leave. But nobody likes the guy who leaves in the middle of a conversation, so I shout out with Tourette’s fervor all the awful, terrible things I can come up with and become the intolerable jackass that is my public persona. If I can get everyone else to leave, then it’s not me who is weird, right? Right?

I know that living in my head through nonsense and jackassery is no way to exist, and it hurts every goddamned day, but it’s the only way I know how. If I could, I would stay home from work, social settings and just live on the computer, but that’s just trading one crutch for another. It’s not fair to be such a big, floppy cock to the people who probably care about me the most, but it’s so difficult to be the raw and real, vulnerable person I am with so many people around. I know it’s my own damned fault, and I’m sorry to everyone who I’ve offended in my long term as miserable-prick-in-chief.

The things I do sometimes and the way I act make me feel like a broken product. I look at others and can’t comprehend how they are so comfortable around other people or, if they aren’t, how they deal with it in such a gracious way. I have tried to study others and learn the secret that allows them to be normal, but I haven’t picked up a damned thing that is worthwhile in my anthropological studies. It all leads to my conclusion that something is wrong with me, and I have no idea how to fix it (if it could be fixed). So I continue to deal with my anxieties in the only way I know how, and I’m sorry for that. I am always trying to be a better person, but I fail fairly regularly.

The writing, the place I go when my attempts at reaching others have failed, that is the topic at hand. I really want to talk to someone right now (about anything at all) because it would help confirm that I’m not dreaming and the peculiar things to which I am now linked are real. I can’t really write or discuss the pressing-at-my-temples matter, but I just need some contact or connection because the cogs cranking in my thinking bits are starting to grind. It’s like I was just Kurt-Cobained with some buckshot of oddity, sadness and disbelief, but there isn’t anyone available.

So I worked on a story a bit, did some template formatting and editing on others, and finally decided I needed to write something new. That’s what this is. It’s the product of my current isolation and lack of contact. It’s an escape from myself and a coping mechanism for a myriad of mental maladies. I want to make more time for writing, but I’m often bursting with busy. It’s the only easy and reliable outlet I have, and it affords me the opportunity to describe and therefore tolerate the inhuman condition in which I exist. I don’t know and cannot imagine where I would be without it, but that place is something I would not even wish upon the corpse of Ronald Reagan (and that dead bastard deserves it).

So thank you for being here when I need you the most and never disappointing or judging me.