Okay, before I bother to go back and proofread or decipher whatever I wrote last night, let's try to capture this bizarre morning after that followed the bizarre night.
It's not like anything particularly weird is happening. Same goes for last night. I didn't get wildly drunk. I didn't have a dozen conversations I can't remember. I didn't get surprise angry, or sad, or racist at the end of the night. But I did spend $24 Ubering to and from the bars after already getting home around 12:30. I did drink beer I didn't have a taste for. I danced to music I wasn't really feeling. The conversations I got into didn't suck and the people lent themselves to offering interesting opinions and forthrightness. The bizarre part is following that arbitrary line that seems to be gaining thread as it constitutes my life.
Maybe I can put it like this. I'm envying the dog. There's no guilt or pride when he goes to take a shit. When he slips on the floor or traps himself between a shoe rack and the wall, he's not glowing with embarrassment. The dog has one speed. “Whatever's in front of me, this is what I'm doing.” We of course shouldn't aspire to be dogs, but the perfectly arbitrary space we inhabit where no one bats an eye while they watch us take a shit seems like an important truth at the base of our soul. You don't care about my headache, or money spent, or even that I felt shitty and tired enough to not make it up to a lunch for my friend's sister's graduation. I knew it was coming. I was planning on going. I said, “Meh, I'll work it out” and then proceeded not to.
It's like part of me is trying to “take back” the irresponsibility and arbitrariness. All week is dictated by stupid drives and stupid people persistently fucking with me? Well guess what weekend! Not that either things leave me fulfilled or I can justify what I'm doing. It's like my compass is showing cracks. I'm construing a way to make it look like “fate,” whatever happens to me and my pipe dreams. But I'm also losing more and more of my capacity to care. That sense of urgency and shame are hollowed out. Let me take a shit on the dance floor. The next time I'll be out, half those people will have moved away.
Why not text an ex a question you've apparently asked in the past? Why not try to enjoy sitting around alone all day? Why not take all the requisite pills and syrups to suppress your inflamed brain that much quicker? Why not write more words than you'll ever care to read back, eeking out each line to end as pointlessly as you started? I don't care. What's my ask? To share publicly for a semblance of accountability? HA! I'm alone, and tired, and arbitrary. My thoughts are leading me nowhere, and I'm going to try and go back to sleep.
