My head is falling apart. Everything I read feels instinctively full of shit. Is it paranoia?
I went to a book fair. An author fair? A book expo? I guess it was, they were selling bound piles of paper. Prose written by hundreds of different authors that are all disillusioned and pasteurized, like they all took the same class with the same professor who published a poetry book in the nineties called "The Fog of the Zeitgeist" and then met up in the back of an locally-owned coffee shop and edited everything together and as a result creativity is a formula instead of an idea.
Set up. Punchline. A sentence that lists one, two, three things followed by a hyphen---and a question? I'm just sayin. Your pacing? Is bullshit. I do it too and we can smell our own. Self-deprecation is disguised as a gimmick of endearment instead of actual loathing, it's just cool to refer to yourself as someone with self-loathing because Chuck Palahniuk said so.
But hope is so much more powerful than self-loathing, hope and want and the balls to exist, which is something I completely lack and desire deeply and I write myself in circles, I'm sliding around this funnel-bong of meta-actualization, and I don't own a fucking bong because weed makes me even paranoider about people's perception of me than I already am.
Nonsense because someone said nonsense was funny, not because they themselves are nonsensical, and can't people smell contrivance when it's thrust upon them? Not everything is contrived, of course. TED speeches seem unique, but sometimes they are so rhetorically slanted I get frustrated. I can't stand social commentary because it's old and it's tired and it's always about things I know inherently or things that ring false in my fibers and I have this craving for things that are new, even if they're only new to me.
If I ask someone for something new and they give me something old I feel like a guilty scumwhore, because should I thank them and move on? My uber-obsession with authenticity (which, I know, is something most single people my age are going through right now, and believe me: shut up, that doesn't fucking help me feel authentic) tells me that I should thank them, but let them know they told me something I already fucking know, because did you seriously think I didn't know that?
What a terrible way to function.
At the same time, 90% of the strangers I've met are a slopbucket of self-righteous cunts that love congratulating themselves on educating me. "Well, you probably don't know this, but..."
I stay away from these people as much as possible, because all they've really taught me is that 90% of the population is full of self-righteous cunts, and I'm trying real, real hard to believe that statistic is inaccurate. But I've thrown up defensive firewalls because there are some irksome, irksome people out there, and weeding through them is exhausting and in the end I'm terrified that I will come across as ungrateful to the people I love and respect, but I'm argumentative. It's who I am.
So I try to stay self-aware, but I am aware of my self-awareness. I am so aware of my self-awareness that it becomes a chore to make sure I do not look like I am so incredibly buzzing with molecular reactions that I forget to pay attention to other people just so I don't split apart and little bits of me don't go flying in their faces.
I forget that my stray thoughts might sound careless and cruel. But I love having conversations with people that disagree with me: those are the best. But people who disagree with me hate talking to me because I want yelling matches and debates, and I can't help it if my logic is more meta and more logical due to my self-awareness. Come on.
Talking to people who have the exact same opinion as me is completely boring, we're just jerking each other off, and poorly, unless it becomes a contest over who can say the same thing in the most interesting way: I love that game.
I acquire energy through conflict, but whenever I conflict with someone they don't want to explore the conflict, the nature of it, the why behind it - do they not care?
Why do we live in a society driven by people's opinions instead of a society driven by their actions? Why is it that I'm aware of this, dislike it strongly because I believe actions are more valuable, but I know that I am better at opinions and words and therefore continue to focus on them, and dislike myself for it and wish, wish, wish I were different?
I keep on making things because I have to. It's my only real acting compulsion. I think it's because I keep gaining weight, and I keep gaining weight because I keep drinking the beer. People keep on leaving it at my apartment and everyday, like clockwork, there I am: drinking the beer and building the clock.
Oh, I made a clock, did you know that? From scratch. I mean, it was made out of paper. And it kind of works.
In some ways, it's the most successful, innovative clock ever created because it completely defies the logic of spacetime and essentially the room in which it dwells exists in a completely different timeline than the rest of my apartment, so I am constantly crossing the threshold between alternate timelines where the rules of modern-day societies' timekeeping do not apply, and that's a comforting thought.
But according to the small-minded, little people living in reality: one of the gears is totally warped and the fucking thing is broken.
My truth, of course, is better. But the other truth is truthier. And as much as I want to believe in truth and the importance of actions and harmony, I don't. I believe in nonsense, and talking about how I feel about nonsense, and going out and committing nonsense and causing and resolving conflict, and the joy that comes from conflict and talking in three-hour funnels. Fuck, I love talking in three-hour funnels. Circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and boom! Result.
So this is where it comes from: I know who I am, and I wish I wasn't that way, and no matter how much I strive to be someone with virtue and the beauty of soul, someone who acts for the greater good of mankind, someone who truly loves the people of the world--and I'm trying, I really am trying (DO, there is no try) and the harder I try the more I realize that I'm trying to be something I just am not. Because people I respect and want to emulate are that way, and they always seem so lovely and free even within the cages some of them built for themselves.
We, as people who blog, or people who read my blog, are all familiar with my navel-gazing - although fancy people like me call it omphaloskepsis. But you know what? Sometimes it leads to things I'm proud of, and it's okay to be proud of them, because writing is my meditation, I guess. I'm navel-gazing.* Who cares? No one but me. I'm the only one who cares to call it that. Probably because I'm funneling my own thoughts, and no one is helping me with this. YOU! Blog readers! Look alive, people. Call me on my bullshit. Give me something, please. Do I make sense? Does this feel like truth to you, even despite the nonsense? Does it make any sense? I'm appealing to you, asking you, all you motherfuckers that read this blog - am I yelling at nothing and no one? You read this, and you soak it in, and I know you do and you file it under "Rassles Talking Garbage" and you know all of this shit about me, and I know nothing about how you feel about it. Selfish. Fuck you.
* Not naval-gazing. Not naval-gazing. I DO THAT ALL THE TIME. I ALWAYS GET THAT WORD WRONG. I should just stop saying it. Naval.