fucktard
so anyway, i have nothing to say. you don't want to know, and i don't want to talk about it. i know you don't want to know because anyone i try to talk to just isn't interested. people who claim to care about me, don't. it's not a shock. i hate you sufficiently these days to expect it of you. everyone is just too preoccupied with their own shit to bother with mine. if you are reading this and feel it is an indictment of you personally; it is. if you are reading this and feel it is unfair because you are doing your best; you are not.why should you though? we mostly coast through our lives, and do not bother ourselves much. and we live in a culture that tells us it's all about us. i don't claim to be any different.
i have been despondent since the night i lost a lot of money at poker. it's not the money. i don't care about that at all. it's that i felt i was getting somewhere, and now i feel that a door has slammed in my face.
but you think it is nothing. so what, just move on. but i have nowhere to move on to. i have not written anything this year. not a thing. i felt confident i would. i told mrs zen that i would write a whole book this year. i even made a bet with her. i will now have to pay her off because i didn't write a single word of it. and i won't next year either. what's the point? i don't feel confident, and that lack of confidence has been justified. no one is interested. no one likes my writing much. people with taste find it boring.
even if they didn't, i couldn't push it. that's not me. i am a terrible salesman. i keep hoping that i will write something i will feel confident enough in that even i can't deny it's good. but i destroy any hope of that by not even having the confidence to begin.
maybe that's a thing i do on purpose, so that i can just not try, and by not trying, avoid failure. but if i haven't failed, what else can you say about my life?
nothing except that i've stopped caring. it's the root of the melancholy that has been killing me. it is like lantana in the fields of my self, strangling everything that i am about. now i am about nothing and i wish i was richer. that is all. i simply wish i had stopped caring earlier so that i would now be rich. obviously i could have been. it's only my conscience that has stopped me.
there is no point bothering with me any more. i don't, why should you? the wise money has already fucked off. i was hurt for a while when s disappeared. it seemed grossly unfair that she should judge me, when she had been so wrong. but of course i know she is not someone who even considers that she can be wrong, and as a coping mechanism, it's not bad. i was annoyed that k stopped bothering, particularly because i knew she was still reading my blog, hoping to see her name, i don't doubt. i felt, damnit, she would realise that she had blown it, lost the chance to have something good in her life. good for her, i mean, not good in a bigger sense. but i was wrong and she was right. i am just another fucktard.
posted by Dr Zen @ 3:38 pm
5 Comments:
i am just another fucktard
what a great title for a book!
if you are reading this and feel it is unfair because you are doing your best; you are not.
This is interesting. I often think about where I'm lacking in how I relate to people. What is our best? I know that I don't do my best to show my family how much I care about them, but every so often, I surprise us all. And vice versa. Though my mom is a caregiver extraordinaire when it comes to her family. I take after my dad, unfortunately, though thank heavens I had my mom's influence to soften what could have been my more thoughtless nature.
Then there are those who aren't in our immediate circle that we do care about, yet they get short shrift. I think about the people I work with every day. They're just about as close as my family. We've worked together for years and years, day in and day out, and yet, where are they on days when I'm a mess? Where am I when they are? Are we paying attention?
We can't be *on* all the time, I tell myself. And sometimes, it isn't that we wouldn't or couldn't be there for someone if we only knew they needed us. Or what they needed.
When I have a day(s) like you're having in which I believe that no one cares, I don't say anything to anyone to even let them know I need them. Why should I have to, I think? If they cared, they'd reach out to me without me begging for their attention.
Sometimes I second guess myself when I think to reach out, not because I don't want to, but because I figure I'm not someone that can do anything to help. Why would they want to hear from me? I'm a person who needs reassurance from those I reach out to that I'm someone they like hearing from. If I don't get that, I think, oh, well, I guess I won't bother them any more, then.
Wouldn't it be great if we could give our best 24/7? But even then, someone would still be skipped over at a time when they really needed a person to show they cared.
boots sez:
"people who claim to care about me, don't. it's not a shock. i hate you sufficiently these days to expect it of you. everyone is just too preoccupied with their own shit to bother with mine."
You have no concept of just how boring my own shit is Zen, even your douchebag life is vastly better, now quit the crybaby crap.
"i have been despondent since the night i lost a lot of money at poker. it's not the money. i don't care about that at all. it's that i felt i was getting somewhere, and now i feel that a door has slammed in my face."
You've been fucked by the maths, Zen. You've let yourself believe in them, and they've fucked you. Get over it, you dropped your pants for them, it's what you should expect.
If you're going to gamble, expect Luck to dictate the outcome and be willing, not eager yet certainy willing, to fucking lose. If you can't play that way, do something useful. Make a few extra bucks flipping burgers, shag a new face, smoke a few extra joints. whatever it takes.
But fucksake man, you're beating yourself to death for no reason, the incredible self-flagellating machine.
Tell the world to fuck off and do what pleases you for a change. Spend a week hiking through the country without any money. Sleep outside. Shit in the bushes. Whatever it takes to free your fucking soul.
Whatever it takes to free your fucking soul.
But that's just it, boots. Whatever it takes? It takes getting over fear, over complications, over responsibilities that weigh on us.
Our lives aren't a Nike commercial. We can't always just do it. It takes a breakthrough moment, and unfortunately, those aren't something that we can make happen when we need them. They come upon us when we least expect.
I too am just another fucktard, and an unemployed one at that. Yet I'm strangely, unrelentingly cheerful about it. I can think of various explanations, all of them contradictory.
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