12/31/08

I find it amazing, the things I can say without garnering a reaction.  It really just supports my belief that people are all oblivious to what’s going on around them.  We’re all selfish and self-centered, concerned only with the advancement of ourselves and our own interests.  It truly is amazing.

I’m not that oblivious, really.  I’m mostly indifferent.  And maybe you all are, too.  I can’t really decide if that’s better or worse, really.  Indifference or selfishness?  Do we not notice, or do we not care?

When I was…17? My sister was doing that whole bipolar thing that pissed me off.  One morning I noticed a series of straight horizontal cuts on her leg.  I saw, but I didn’t say a word, and pretended that I never noticed.   And I knew, somewhere, deep down inside, that it made me a terrible person.  What sort of person doesn’t care when her sister self-mutilates?

I guess what it comes down to is that I am both selfish AND indifferent.  Everything is about me, really.  Because that’s just the way it works out.  That’s what happens when you’re the brooding tortured genius.  Everything tends to arrange itself around you.  When you can see through everyone else, you’re the only interesting thing left.

I am absolutely enthralled with myself.  To the point that I neither need nor want relationships with other people.  I am everything I need, and other people are completely useless when it comes to fullfilling any needs I might have.  I love myself, I comfort myself, I soothe myself, I nurture myself, and it takes up so much of my energy that I don’t have any comfort or nurturing to give to anyone else.

And I don’t trust anyone else with the epic task of soothing, nurturing, and comforting me.

Sometimes, one of my cats will do something annoying, like knock over a trinket or a glass and break it.  And for a moment, I am irritated with the cat, because I was fond of the trinket or whatever.  But after that moment, I realize that it is a CAT that doesn’t know any better than to knock shit over.  It’s what cats do, and the broken glass is really my fault because I should have known better than to leave class somewhere the cat could get to it.  I  knew better, after all.

That’s how I see other people.  When they fuck up and hurt me, it’s my fault because I should have known better than to leave my feelings out where they could get to them.  After all, people are only human, and fucking up is what they do.  But I  knew better.  I could have prevented it.  Other people do what comes naturally to them, but it’s so predictable that I should have stopped it.

Yeah, I’m an asshole.  I think other people are weak and stupid, and that pisses a lot of people off.  My attitude repels people, and I’m used to it. 

I’m not lonely, exactly.  I’m not sure of the word that would describe it.  I’m bored, certainly.  And tired. 

This doesn’t make me feel any better.  The act of purging, of squeezing the pus from an infected wound, it’s supposed to be a relief.  But the relief never comes.  I’ve told you so much, more than I’ve ever told anyone, but there’s still something rotting inside of me.

Sometimes, I think about antidepressants, therapy, whatever.  But I’m strong and I don’t need help, because I don’t have a problem, really.  Yeah, I slice myself open a few times a week, and I ingest a lot of poison, but I function.  I function well.  I go to work and I go to school and I do great.  I got a 4.0 GPA this semester.  I don’t even think I’m depressed, because I’m missing one giant symptom–this shit isn’t affecting my life.  Sure, I think of suicide every day, I feel hopeless and guilty, I suffer from headaches and stomach aches, I feel nervous and anxious, but it doesn’t stop me from achieving great things.  It isn’t a handicap to me, so I am not diseased, and I do not need help. 

It is this that has led me to constantly question myself.  I see the commercials for the anti depressants on TV, and that’s not me.  I don’t sit around in my sweat pants and cry.  I go out, I laugh, and I achieve higher and higher every day.  But I am consumed with self-loathing and boredom, and never ending thoughts of my own death.  So what the fuck?

It’s all pointless in the end, because we’re all so oblivious.  I could die at my keyboard and I would still be irrelevent, just another few bytes of data stored somewhere…or something.

P.S. I’m wasted.