On the 23rd

The house is silent.

I’m the only one home.

I’m supposed to be cleaning the house, but I have a few hours, so that should be no big difficulty. Especially since I only have to do part of it. I’m also not supposed to be tying up the phone lines, or sitting on the floor bent over the laptop which is our only connection to the internet since my family managed to destroy the connection here at home on the console. I had had no difficulty with it but, of course, they had to go and fuck with it.

I’m annoyed and angry if you couldn’t guess. I’m also a bit wistful, that might be the best word. I don’t want to say sad, or pathetic, or depressed. I feel somewhat like it, but there’s more there, there are better words to describe what I’m feeling than those. Wistful’s pretty good. Longing, maybe. I’ll get to that.

I hate the fact that the computers here at home and at school don’t have the proper configuration for this diary to recognize that I’m making paragraphs without me putting in the little “P” markers to separate my thoughts. The poem I’ll be writing shortly will be a pain in the ass, but I’ll do it. It’s therapeutic.

It’s the Eve of Christmas Eve. It’s white outside and bright. Not a lot of snow, but enough to make my Dad wander around angry all the time because he hates Wisconsin but lives here. He won’t change either. He’d rather bitch.

The thing I’ve come to realize more and more about my family is how much the world revolves around them. How much they think they’re the centers of the universe. After suffering through “Mona Lisa Smile” last night, don’t ask me why I forced myself to go to the theatre to watch it, I got to thinking about that. Isn’t that always the way of things? We’re always trying to make the world conform to what we want? Isn’t that always the way? I hope I’m not like that. I don’t think I am.

Actually, wait. Stop that. I am not like that. I know. I know because I can see that I’m not. Watching my little brother and my father play pool gives me that exact idea. When we play and they sink balls, no matter who they’re up against, when they themselves make a shot, it’s skill. Sometimes they’ll concede to luck, but for the most part they believe they’re good. And they are. When a sloppy shot makes it in and they don’t say whether they meant to or not, I still believe that it was skill until they say otherwise. Not so with their opponent. Every shot THEY make is luck except for the very easy ones. And that’s the way of the world. This family as a whole thinks that they are the centers of the universe. Everything is about them. When it isn’t about them, it’s because other people are jealous of how the world revolves around them. Listening to my mother talk about why I didn’t get a nomination for a lead actor Barnie this year is ludicrous. There were five shows with five male leads. While I was acting, so were all the others. Some not as good as mine, in my opinion, but who cares? It’s not about me. I wish I had gotten nominated, I think I deserved it more because my role was not an easy transformation for myself not to mention I had to direct myself, I pieced the role together in five days, and other things….but that’s not the point. The point is that I didn’t get nominated and that’s fine because other people did. Who cares. I know I did well. I know I was great. That’s what counts, right?

But what is making me most annoyed and wistful at the moment is that I can believe in my skill as an actor because I have tangible proof all around me. I have plenty of people who think I’m great. And I can compare myself to other actors and see all my advantages clearly. But the area of love/relationships/friendship all seem to be the exact opposite for me. This world I know nothing about. This world I constantly need to be at the center of because I don’t feel that I have tangible proof. I don’t feel like I have friends or loves or relationships that I can term worthwhile. I feel constantly alienated. I feel alone. I am home alone.

What is it about this portion of my life that kills me? After reading one of my favorite diaries, as in one of my most liked diaries, not just one that is on my favorites list, I thought about this more. The diary topic was simple, a girl in love with a man she will most likely never have. Tragedy. Yes. Absolutely. And I think about my own situation. It is the same. Man in love with a girl he’ll never have. With her, it’s so much simpler, perhaps more painful, I think less. And I don’t mean this in a way that says that my world is more important and my pain more important, but the fact is that she loves a single man. Me? I’ve loved so many. The story repeats itself time and again. Have I loved some less and some more? Yes. Made mistakes and rushed into loving people? Yes. Does the fact that I move from love to love so easily mean that my love is less intense? No. No no no. I won’t believe it because I know it’s not true. If that was true than I would see this in others. Answer me this world, are you all just good at controlling it? I’ve seen enough of people to see how little self-control most have when it comes to emotion and desire, so how could they all have so much control of such passion. I know it just rips me apart. My problem is I’m skizophrenic. I can’t seem to be unhappy around people….I don’t know why. It could simply be a psychotic behavior, I’d like to think it’s because my sub-conscious is recognizing that each time I’m with people, it’s one more chance to make substantial relationships(friendship or otherwise) Who really knows.