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| I thought maybe I'd continue counting up the days of college but I've just been such a lackluster human being these past few months or years that it hasn't seemed as important to me. The novelty is entirely lost, so to speak.
I used to think Carsen was the ultimate or penultimate version of the person I wanted to be. She is hyper-confident, astute, always funny, and, most importantly, careless. And that's not to say she doesn't care about anything in the way a psychopath might watch his grandmother die on a sidewalk. It's mostly that there is no internal censor in her brain, nothing that stops her from acting the way she wants to be perceived. I used to think that.
It's also that I vary between 7 or 8 extremes, though I am most often thoughtfully passive.
Secretly, there are two motivations by which my character lives his life. And on the unfortunate matter of being too vague or specific I often opt for vagueness, because I don't want people to know those goals.
I'm a liar, dispassionately. I don't know if I'm a good one or bad one. But I exaggerate, tell half-truths to make the story more interesting because my stories, by themselves, are often so bland. I am not anecdotal because my anecdotes would involve a lot of sitting. I exaggerate. I can get out of most anything believably or make up an excuse for my faults. There are countless things I want and don't want to do, countless reasons why I was legitimately late, why I screwed up, why the facts are undeniably correct, none of which are entirely true. When I mess up, my brain often corkscrews, imagining a truth with seven or eight different levels of explanation as to why it couldn't have possibly been mine, yours, or anyone's faults. Most people admit it, and it's easy for them, easy for the parties involved, but my brain examines the repercussions broadly, blames everything on the zeitgeist or the miasma of the day. Sometimes, it's believable.
I don't lie all the time. Sometimes, I'm tired. In fact, often, more as a result of intestinal malfunctions than any particular hard day's work, I am exhausted. Literally. Physically spent because I cannot digest my food like I used to. Most people get fat when they get older. I can't poop. And I am only so young. It might be comical or gross but it's factual, many of my physical problems and, therefore, leisurely desires are designed by chronic constipation and, perhaps, my unwillingness to use laxatives or drugs in general.
It's like I lied to Carsen the other day as if to prove to her I didn't and couldn't possibly have Asperger's Syndrome. Because I don't. And I know this because I know two people who have it and one who is autistic and I am completely unlike any of them. Because I use and understand sarcasm, the main delineation between myself and those on the spectrum. But I did lie to her, to her eyes reading. Clinically tested, I haven't been. But there's a certain understanding I've obtained that she passes off as trivial and questions without needing an explanation. She is so thoroughly convinced, or was. Or still is.
One of the extremes encompasses gullibility while another harbors an inherent need to be entirely untrusting. And I hate only one of those qualities.
I have also never considered suicide. Because I understand the quality of being sentient and the vacillation over misgivings about what happens afterward. Which is the name of my religion: Vacillationism. Because an ism-ite is might. Like Wafdism.
Tracy hugged or touched me or grabbed me on several occasions today. Which means I've progressed beyond the boy who loves pretty. Because had I been that boy I would've fallen in love immediately. I am indifferent to her feigned advances.
It's a comedy. But at times, not. Because I had, to steal a phrase, been fond of Lindsay, Chelsea, and even Tracy at some time. And interestingly I hated that about me. That I was still influenced so much by their prettiness and not their pettiness. This is the person I wanted to be perceived, someone aloof to romance.
It's stupid. I like the idea of someone being in love with me, but I don't care anymore to love anyone. Romantically disinclined as I'd always wanted. Because they know I can't talk and I know I can't talk and it's just easier on me to whisk it away. And that's how I can do it. Genetically.
Is it bizarre that Justin has such stern, unflinching eyes? They make girls feel uncomfortable. Sometimes I wish I had those eyes. But I have Chris Staples' eyes. Shifty.
And, can I say that it's a cop out to suggest that you have no regrets, nothing to be ashamed of, on account of all things working toward some predestined vision to which you are currently blind? You could just say, "Yes, I regret things I've done, but believe that there's a reason behind all things."
But that would be false.
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| Before I forget,
I'm quite tired of people who think they're somehow especially peculiar because their eyes change colors...as though theirs are the only pair that happen to do that. On a survey, when asked what color eyes you have, you're supposed to say one color. I don't care that you have blue eyes but sometimes they're green and occasionally, if you look at them just right, there is a streak of yellow that shoots through the pupil. Not only that, if you're going to make mention of your wonderfully exotic eye color, don't hype them up to be something extraordinary when it's clear that half the people with blue or green eyes can see multiple different hues in them at different times.
I suck.
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| Unbelievably I'm a teenager for only 5 more minutes. I do everything too late. It's now three minutes. As though something like this were actually momentous. What is it of blandness? Or so maybe I think. Don't wait.
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| I'm a much angrier person recently. I've noticed because I'm hitting things. Or throwing things. I threw a hotbag in anger. Not in disgust. Not flippantly. It was a concerted effort. A thrust. It was obvious, it scared people. Like I was an abusive dad and they were waiting for their beating because they knew I had it in for'em if I was that mad. I wasn't mad at the hotbag. I wasn't really even mad at the woman who had made my deliveries nearly an hour late. She was insolent, but I wasn't really mad at her. I realize those types of things don't really matter. I've just generally become angry.
Today, I was opening the cheese boxes. And if you know anything about opening cheese boxes, you know you have to hit the perforated edges and then peel back the top of the box to get to the cheese. I was hitting the perforated edges and they wouldn't disconnect. They remained stuck together. So, I'd hit them faster with the same force but still without the desired result. And so needless frustration builds and the last ditch effort is a powerful smack on to the perforated edges that makes a loud popping noise. And you realize you're breathing hard and your heart's racing and you're warm with a scowl on your face. It'd be very silly if it were just a meaningless fit.
But I didn't used to do those things. I didn't used to slam my fist harder than necessary on the perforated edges of the cheese box even when they were particularly hard to get open. I didn't used to throw hot bags violently against the driver table even when I had terrible (and insulting) customers.
I wrote a poem nearly a year and a half ago about how I never used anger. That it sat quietly in a corner. Sulked.
I really am bad at everything. I can't even finish my sob story. The reason why I'm angry a lot. I know it! Maybe I shouldn't have even written this.
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| The best way to describe the current state I've been in for some time is by using the word of the day...which also happens to be the title of this abbreviated blog entry.
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