I think I’m an introvert. My friends don’t. They say no one who is as loud and opinionated and good with strangers as I am could possibly be an introvert.
But every time plans get cancelled, I breathe a sigh of relief.
And I may run my mouth, but I’m never saying a percent of what I’m thinking.
At this point, I feel like I’m boasting, that I’m alluding to something deeper and more meaningful going on in my head, a secret I keep for myself.
I also feel like I’m boasting because I feel like I cannot complain. I look at a fucker like me and a world like mine and friends like these and it doesn’t add up, so I appreciative I should stay.
And appreciative I am.
But when a friend doesn’t call back, or that girl I like doesn’t like me, or I see someone being more successful than I feel I ever could, that makes more sense.
It makes more sense to me for life to be shit than gold.
Because I feel like that makes sense for me.
Why? My mom and dad think the world of me, always have. My friends think the same. So why do I think I’m destined for a shit life? That these friends and this house and this pocket change is someone else’s.
This outfit ain’t mine, put me in sweats.
To clarify, I don’t think I’m royally fucked. Because I believe there is some beauty in totally fucked. Heroin addicts and rape victims and all those people with real problems, there’s something discernibly attractive about that. Maybe if only to have some evidence to why I feel the way I do.
But no, I have an iPhone. And a day calendar. And a car that runs fine. And Diet Coke, because real Coke is too sweet. And a brain that thinks a hangover means alcoholism. And I’ll bum a cigarette, but I’ll never buy a pack. And I should diet, but I don’t, and that’s my vice.
Really fucking rock and roll.
I read magazines and feel suburbic. I watch porn to imagine my wedding. I drink coffee black and I don’t know why.
And every conversation about “I’m gonna make it, and I’m gonna do it,” feels about as real as what I’m writing now.
I picture all the motherfuckers with good tastes and bad jobs and I want so badly to not be them. All content because they’re in love with someone who likes what they like and that’s all they’ll ever need. I hate them because I think I might be them. I believe I will eventually settle for that life.
But for now, I’ll have that life, and be that guy, only I’ll bitch about it the whole goddamn time.
Why can’t I be those that I love? Why can’t I be cool? Why can’t I take my neuroses and build something beautiful with them? Why must I be doomed to consume and never serve?
Am I even a writer or do I just write?
I don’t fucking know, I better blog about it.
What a tool.
