[1050] If We're Keeping Score

Oh dear.

I’ve been attempting to hold onto this thought for over an hour driving home. I hope I can do it justice.
It’s curious, funny, amazing, and pretty ridiculous that I’m not given (at least in my mind) the credit for the depth of my feelings. So much of my behavior is fundamentally rooted into an overwhelming feeling, I don’t really know what to take from those who pretend I’m Spock-ing my way through life (irony free at least.)

I feel so much. I’m like the biggest fucking feeler of anyone. I tried at one point to downplay how much I felt about my crush in high school and Byron’s whole disposition shifted to make sure I didn’t allow a lessening of what I was on about. I’m extremely hateful. I’d kill in a heartbeat. Every intellectual and existential posture I could argue for the lack of wisdom in certain kinds of violence would fly so freely out the window in the right circumstances. I live under a constant tension. On my best days I’m actively resisting tightening up or clenching my jaw.

I believed so fucking hard in the friendships from college. I was absolutely sold. I think every person who entertains me for longer than a week is practically miraculous. My feelings are overwhelming by default. I am nothing but a wave of “whatever feeling” when it strikes if I’m not paying attention.

Thankfully, I’m smart enough to write. I have 1050 attempts of paying closer attention. I don’t just kill things. I don’t try to wife up every cute-enough girl who can’t help but play with her hair as we talk.
I’ve spent 20 years now trying to conceptualize my feelings. I don’t want them to have more power than they’re due. I don’t want to be at the mercy, of which there is little to none, of them. I want to be sincere and deep and earnest in my expression of desire, interest, or indignity. I know how to sincerely *sell* that, but I want it recognized and reflected in earnest. I want fucking friends. I want interested invested payers of attention spending interest points on things that matter.

You want to really pretend you can get a grasp of how lonely I am? I’ve written 1,050 blogs over 20 years. I’ve given you every remote depth of my psyche I could access. I’ve discussed every horrifying ridiculous thing about my thoughts, what people think of me, how I’m oriented, or what I’m shooting for. Literally every single person in my life, I’ve read maybe 5 thought digressions from people combined. And almost all of those are from the same person, my RA 16 years ago.

I don’t know what anyone’s really thinking. They don’t own it. They don’t look at it and wrestle with it and utilize it to direct their next action. You fuckers realize I live in a fucking shed in cousin-fuck Indiana, right? How the fuck do you think I get here without an entire world-shifting conversation about the pros and cons? My deluded dumbass hopeful self thought I wasn’t the only one having it. Fuck me I’m fucking retarded.

 
I’m so angry and hopeless it doesn’t register in words. I’m so sad that no matter what I do, what I say, what example I try to set, I can’t be anything more than “where people are.“ People are in a miserable ridiculous guilt-ridden irrational hopeless and ignorant space playing nice so what they do have isn’t ripped away any sooner than it’s destined to.

I had fun again. I saw bands I liked. I acquired T-shirts. I chatted with an old friend and her friends. I got some walking in. I defied notions of debt. It’s just my world. Other people were there, but it’s mine to be immortalized in lines like this. What could really be shared? We don’t listen to the same music. We don’t have the same money. Our priorities don’t align.

Fuck your feelings. That’s the message. No one has ever really given a shit about mine, so I learned how to respectfully dismiss yours. It’s not the way to run a healthy or respectful relationship. I have an overwhelming amount of feelings about myriad topics all the fucking time. Who cares? Does it help me understand or consider where you’re coming from? Does it speak to how I might practice and live a practical ideal?

I don’t know anything about you. You have nearly every word I’ve ever thought about me, and you don’t know anything about me. Isn’t that a tragedy? Am I not allowed to feel not great about it? I don’t belong, not really. I know how to fit somewhat, but it’s contrived and manipulative. I know how to play the game.

I know how to play the game.