You hit motherfucking paragraphs like these:
I bought them at the beginning of last year. Cost a pretty penny. Brown leather, zips on the sides. They’re great, except for the fucking soles. There’s wood, then there’s rubber underneath the wood. Except, after having worn them for all but half a dozen times, the rubber on the edge of the heel has been worn away and now there’s just fucking wood. Hard, solid, loud wood.
I used to have strident soles like these back in primary school. Continue reading
Only dreams now.
Even writing in a personal journal does take some effort to get started. The only posts that really ‘flow naturally’ are the ones that are borne out of sadness, frustration or spite. When I’m happy, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about sharing my feelings with strangers on the internet. When I’m unhappy, however, I will write thousands of words detailing exactly why and how I came to be that way. The internet must always be kept abreast regarding my troubles. But they can’t know exactly whose troubles they’re reading about.
Anonymity is another issue: many of the things that happen to me would be difficult to communicate without personal context. I keep descriptions of my identity intentionally vague so as to be able to write unpopular and personal opinions without fear of reprisal. But even if I were doxed to the most intimate degree, what would come of it? Would someone come up to me in public and shout “HAHA GET A LOAD OF THIS FAGGOT SHARING HIS FEELINGS ON THE INTERNET?” Sure, I share some things on here that I don’t tell most people, things that would likely embarrass me to some degree if they were known to people I live and work with. Perhaps the only difference between me and them is that I’ve taken the effort to vocalize these feelings; to make an issue of it would be to hypocritically imply that they are exempt of socially compromising character flaws.
Another thing is perhaps finding the right words to be used in the right way to accurately convey a certain message. I have a Word document filled with the beginnings of various posts on a variety of topics, but I often give up a few paragraphs in because I find that I’ve either veered off course or am struggling to articulate my thoughts and feelings well.
Other times, I’m just fucking lazy.
I struggle to make myself give a shit about life. About my future career, my sex life, my health, my happiness. I find myself hard-pressed to care.
But god help me when I see generic shitbirds surpassing me in shit I’m supposed to be good at. A guy who watches sports for fun having a better academic record in a more difficult course. A guy who tweets about this sick kegger bro walking around with a beautiful, intelligent girlfriend. A guy whose idea of fun is getting blind-drunk at the beach and somehow drives a more expensive car than I do.
I refuse to sit here mired in bitterness while the rest of the world has fun. I am completely unable to maintain and justify a cynical outlook if everyone else is happy. I cannot stoke my narcissistic defense mechanism if the fuckwits who kicked the shit out of me in school are doing better than I am. My talent and potential means nothing if it is confined to the possibilities of what I could have done, would have done, should have done. The only way I can live with their success is if they have to live with the fact that, even though they did good, I did better.
At the very least, I won’t sit here overcome with sexual frustration while there are guys wearing tapout shirts and flip-flops still getting laid.