I can't tell the difference between incompetence and self-sabotage.

Sleeping on a slowly deflating air mattress is probably as bad for my self-esteem as it is for my back. Maybe I need to graduate to a big boy bed.

I just had an hour long argument with my roommate about why it's highly unlikely that the rise in oil prices was the result of the machinations of a secret cabal of world leaders working in concert to improve their respective economies and lessen the environmental impact of fossil fuel consumption, with him on the opposing side.

Forcing someone to admit the obvious is the most hollow victory in the world, and I am so unhappy right now.

Happy Father's Day!

Eating is great because, during the few moments you spend consuming a meal, ignoring all your other obligations is completely justified.

No ma'am, I can't be bothered to improve my life right now. I'm eating, and that's a basic necessity.

Better yet, you'll have to poop shortly after, and that buys you at least another minute.

Yes, the human body truly was designed by one who saw the value in procrastination. After all, why else would it take an omnipotent being 7 entire days to create the universe instead of just one?

Hell, I wouldn't put it past him to have invented time simply so he could waste it.

I'm not even close to missing the deadlines, at present.

The applications for the two not particularly demanding schools which I'm planning on applying to are actually more than a month from now and more than two months from now, respectively, so there's really nothing to worry about. I've filled out the one online application I could fill out and I'll start the essay when I have a free moment and take care of my transcript when I'm back home and able to receive mail.

I also dreamed I'd gone to hell. Satan offered to get me out for $4, so I gave that much to him, but when I asked what kind of consumer protection was available to me as a patron of demonic services he got all huffy and sicced his damned on me. I threw $11 at them, $5 short of the entire contents of my wallet, and bolted.

I was also Speed Racer for a portion of this adventure, but without the benefit of a car, which I suppose is like that dream dudes sometimes have where they lose their penises but slightly more culturally relevant.

Sometimes I forget who I am. It's not amnesia, really, but rather an inability to grasp the concept of self. I wake up from a daze and attempt to deduce some sort of identity for myself. I cycle through the facts of who I am such as my name, my birthday, where I am now, and how I got there, but the existential math doesn't add up. I feel no connection with the facts of myself, nor the things I have done, and I feel as though I could be describing someone else to myself or dreaming further. Sometimes it extends throughout the day, and this feeling of disconnect extends to my actions even as I engage in them and my words even as I speak them.

Sometimes I think it might be depersonalization disorder, but I'm not convinced that this isn't just something I've invented for myself, so I can feel more interesting than I really am.

I suppose my expectations were a bit out of line with the reality of therapy. I imagined a very intelligent man imperceptibly steering the conversation towards subjects which might grant insight into my history and mental state, all the while constructing an in-depth personality profile which he would inevitably use to my benefit. With that in mind, I spent the first few weeks scrutinizing my therapist's every word and decoding each twitch of his eyes in hopes of gaining insight into his thought process and longterm plans for me. Whenever I mentioned a sensitive subject, I'd notice a change in my voice and expect him to seize upon the subject. When he didn't, instead allowing me to go on a tangent about comic books and the Wold Newton Universe, I thought he was just biding his time until we'd built a stronger rapport and could discuss such topics more openly.

But he never became the therapist I wanted and I ended up spending 8 dollars a week to talk about what movies I'd seen and how my roommate wants us to put dated stickers on perishable food items to ensure maximum refrigerator freshness. All in all, it was a rip-off, so I told the receptionist I was leaving town and just didn't show up on Friday. Maybe I'll find a try to find a different therapist, but for now I'm content to free myself of that meager expense and having to play awkward silence chicken with a man who, after a month, never learned that I'm more likely to fill a conversational void with my opinion about Superman than anything that actually matters.

In other news, I resolved to apply for college again, but have been putting off filing the proper applications. I'm dreading writing essays and dealing with rejection letters, but hopefully not to the point where I'll let the deadline pass me. I think I still have a few weeks. It'd be kind of disappointing and relieving if I didn't.

I made a therapy appointment for tomorrow at five, but I'm not sure if I'm going to go. I'm depressed and listless, sure, but I also don't really want to talk to anybody.