Well, if you're
going to write a “crazy” blog, I suppose it makes sense to talk
about what you went through to provoke it, no?
I was my usual charming self. I sat
down at table, offered a beer, and found myself embedded in a friend
group who's dynamic was happy to host my randomness.
Would you know it? I got along
particularly well with one of them. We did the graze our fingertips
on each other and quasi-hold hand thing that says “we're all but
fucking tonight.” Her friends were on board too. All I had to do
was shut the fuck up.
Can you guess what I didn't do?
Whatever you think about me, I'm still
not about dishonesty. I don't “seem.” I just don't. If you're
under that illusion, I take no responsibility. Basically, I said
something that contradicted my “cool” persona, and the girl left
my hand and the bar. And you know what? No harm, no foul. I'm
charming. I get it. I'm much more disappointed we didn't talk about
your immediate turn regarding my comment than I am at the prospect of
not getting laid.
Here I think is the time to talk about
“fucking weird” blog type shit. Mind you, I don't find it weird,
but my perspective rarely registers otherwise, so I have to deal with
all of your consequences.
Like, let's be real, I was, and am
probably still, all about my ex. I'm not the stalker creepy type. I'm
not lost in some naive Indian conception of “love.” I'm not even
of the opinion that I'm necessarily right or the “best” for her.
What I am is understood in what I want and don't want in people. So
to the extent you want to blame “love” on me, you don't get
better than my ex. That's going to just be a truth I die with. It's
dramatic if you want it to be, but as a person who hates everyone, I
just can't figure out how she's less than anyone should aspire to be
with. Call me retarded, that's your right. What matters is I get to
die alone writing, with all due respect, and not blowing up her phone
like a crazy person.
This girl tonight wanted to make out.
She wanted to fuck around. If I played it “cool,” I wouldn't be
writing this. I'd be at her house fucking around, for some reason,
because I know how to play the game. What happened instead, I was me.
I talked honestly. I said some “trigger” idea about my ideas
about sex that turned her off in a hurry. And you know what? I
couldn't give less a fuck. I miss feeling connected with someone. I
miss craving the “sacrifice” of trying to behave in ways they
would appreciate. I didn't need to fuck this bitch tonight. And I
couldn't give less a fuck that I said something that was “too much”
that steered her towards the inevitable quicker.
I think this is kind of lost on people
while I struggle and bitch about my relationship to friends.
Remember, I'm not a person who respects and conceives of “love.”
By the time we get along, it's a veritable spell. Most of my life
I've wanted nothing to do with you. “Friends” was as big a joke
as anything. Seriously, you fuckers, do you not get that? Am I just
tooting my own faggy fucking horn thinking I have a bead on you and
how you work? You're the 50 fucks I'm giving more credit than that.
I hate how much I care. I hate that I
made friends. It's fucking terrible. It's fucked. I barely have a
grasp how to approach it. Mostly, it's complicated because you don't
get it. Sure, I have a responsibility to how I respond to you. But,
more sure, you're not a piece of shit. Why do you act like you are?
This is my flirtations with
“sociopathy” when it comes to clear and present danger fuck
opportunities that I cannot find myself invested in. Are you some
feeble bitch who's been looking for any excuse to draw her hand back?
You're better than that, no? You see it coming. You see it for what
it is?
I miss believing. I miss thinking the
people in my life mattered for more than they were worth. I'm not
lonely in some esoteric conception of the word. I'm not “too smart”
or “introspective” eschewing the caution of some philosopher's
warning.
“First things first, I'm the
realist.”
I'll eat all the humble pie when you
can show otherwise. I wanna fuck, but not when you're scared of who I
really am. I don't believe in love, but if I were to throw together a
shitty contradictory idea of how I conceived of my ex, okay you got
me. I don't have even an ounce of hope that my ability and
perspective is going to save or fix anything, but it's my literal
reason to keep living to pretend otherwise. I was told today that,
“you're afraid of life.” The only way that's even a little bit
true is in respecting the shitty road I could take to ingratiate
myself. Fuck you all, I have way too much power. I need you
pretending, like me, that it can be used and accounted for
responsibly.
I didn't go out tonight trying to get
laid. I can't remember the last time that was the case. I just went
out “open.” I've lost my agenda. My violent and voracious craving
for the “real” transcends cumming on your tits. That's what it
is. I'm violent. I'm going to rip what I want out of you. “Real”
is forever an abstraction. My role seems to be immensely particular
as an example of it being less so. Of course we have choices, but god
forbid I don't choose this.
I'm always going to trust, when it
seems due, to my detriment. I'm going to have “faith” in the
people I do and scenarios I pretend to understand. I'm going to die
trying. I'm going to fail believing. I'm going to get as close to
“faith” as a nonbeliever is allowed, because I don't really get
why you bother to exist otherwise. I believe in what I felt towards
my ex. I believe in the fragments of the example my grandparents set.
I believe in ever failed hook-ups at my most charming. The reality,
that shitty “feel” fuck-all realm is real. I fucking hate it. I
want to differentiate. But fuck me for fucking trying, it's just what
doesn't seem to go away.
I'm glad that girl didn't fuck around
with me tonight. I had it in the bag. But I still want people. I want
connection. I want reality. The world is better off my not being a
cynical pervert playing nice enough to play things out.
And that's always the rub. We got
along. We could probably be fairly good friends. But, naw. How I
“seem” won't comport with who I am. Like, whatever you want to
say about me and my ex, I'm not under the impression she was confused
about who I was. It's why I wrote a handful of blogs espousing
feeling understood for who I really was. Naive or not, writing is
supposed to capture the moment, right?
I miss sincerity. It's what I think my
“friend” group in college persuaded me of. I miss believing. I'm
fucking teary-eyed at the idea that it's just me and whatever I might
imagine. How do you blame “friends” when you really miss the
ideal that you were something more?
I always trust me. I will respond in
what works. My ardent suspicion is that my concept of responsible is
going to shit all over every remote conception of humanity. I'm going
to fuel it with ego. I'm going to justify the merit in my “wise”
perspective. I'm going to be “tired” and “matter-of-fact.”
I'm going to adopt a posture of take instead of give. I really just
want to cry. If I could ever lean how to do so without being
immensely and beyond drunk, I would be.
This is the first moment I ever thought
I might do something significantly “bad.” Like, on the real and
fuck you, you know I'm smart. I just got an idea. I feel like I might
be persuaded. I'm fucking crying right now because I don't want to do
that.
Fuck man dude, I just miss believing in
things. I don't want to be what I know I can.
