Fucking bullshit. Do you know the feeling where you want something, something so badly that most days of the week you can't stop thinking about it? You sit around and stare off wistfully, lose track of time, want to claw out to try hopelessly to acquire the source of your desires? Know that feeling? Fuck me I'm in it deep and there's no way out.
I'm bi-polar. I don't handle shit well. I'm socially awkward, I'm introverted to the extent that meeting new people is kick in my ego's testicles. I over think most casual situation and I under think the important ones. People speak of self-esteem problems and I envy them. If only it was self-esteem. If only I simply had problems in crowded situations.
Some days I am a problem.
So backing up the train to that feeling of want, I would go far enough as to say need. And this environment is not helping my mental status. Why? Because of the purpose of this site. It isn't so much for blogging, hell I could go someplace more impactful than this to do such. It isn't for meeting people, that's for certain. If I harbored any such notion of engaging in actual human interaction due to Suicide Girls I'd be betting the long-shot and my luck is notoriously on the low-low. Maybe this is just a place for me to vent. But by using this as a place to vent I'm consistently confronted with such a grand weakness that any manic high I might have thunders down into a valley. I'm just fucking lonely.
Now let's explain this real fast so any observer doesn't figure this is just some sappy lament. It is that, don't be fooled by my denial of it. But it is my sapping lament and that means I kick open room to be a fucking hypocrite. My loneliness is not rooted in some strange void where I have no human interaction. I have friends like most people do, sure. I deal with fellow classmates, I talk to undergraduates that I teach and professors that I argue with chronically. In those situations I fall into quoting Ray "Boots" Riley from The Coup, "I got game like I read the directions." But fuck my world if anyone vaguely attractive and lacking a penis approaches me in any way, shape, or form. My mental acuity seem to simply collapse inwards.
Here, let's take an example. I have somehow gained a solitary follower that is female, I likewise seem to have someone liking posts that is also presumably a woman. If either of them approached me I'd be more likely to choke on my tongue than give even a semblance of general social skills. If I see ink, if I see piercings, if I see dyed hair everything spins out of control and I'm in some limbo space. Questions begin to bound. Why would she even speak with me? If she does is there some alternate motive? What do I have to honestly offer? What would someone see in me? Why would they even bother? The spiral begins to just go deeper and deeper until I leave the impression of being utterly uncommunicative. I leave that impression because that's what I become.
Here I thought as I aged I would handle such things as confidence and self-esteem with more grace than I did when I was a youth. But I do not. Because of this I wrestle with the fact that I am lonely. I am tired of this state but this is a state I seem chronically doomed to maintain.
I don't believe that writing this will help. Why should it? This is a tawdry self-absorbed moment for me to scratch at thoughts I always have. They never quiet. It's interesting when you consider the entire aspect of "alternative beauty." What does the "alternative" mean? Is it just some ink, piercings, bleach and a bit of dye? Is it ascribing to some counter-pop-cultural movement? Is the "alternative" directed towards seeing something in other people that isn't so clearly scribed across the surface of them? I want to believe this is the case. That in some capacity there is a push towards recognizing that spirit comes before flesh, that mind comes before matter. But who am I fooling now?
I fear those fucking poets. Those poets that everyone has at least studied in brevity. Most poets who handle the topic of love die alone without ever realizing what they wrote of. And these are the people who are worshipped for their thoughts. Mind over matter. Hm.
It's not even sex that I want. If it was that would be easy to fix. The flesh is desirable, sure. I'm a living person, I might be a mental and emotional wreck but I'm still human. What chews at me is deeper than that, though. I want companionship in life. I want to have someone with whom I can be the sap, the one who picks up surprises just to see a smile or hear a laugh. Someone to sacrifice for. Someone to argue with, I hold no unrealistic expectations. I don't look for perfection, I don't believe in it. Perfection is the illusion that all of this is built upon. Perfection is this abstract notion of purity that is a fools errand. All I want is my vision of perfection, and my bar is not vaulted.
Look how easy it is to be self-absorbed. I swore to myself I wouldn't do this very post. That I would never do this. Where I lament myself and build up that sickening urge to let loose the fiery doors of repression. But I can't. It's a blank page that demands something to be written across it. This space hungers for something and right now it is getting the purely selfish concept of me.
Perhaps one day I will actually manage to meet someone in a situation where I don't screw myself into the hole within the first few minutes.
Then again perhaps I'll just be the poet and be buried beneath a stone that remarks no family or love that endures my passing.
I must be the only fucking guy who sits around and daydreams of getting fucking married like its an elusive mirage that continues to pass into the distance.