July, Month of my Sluttiness (Part 1)
I had to delete all my old entries and then let my blog air out for a while. There was a lot of negativity; its stink was spreading. I've got like sixteen aerosol cans of Febreeze though, so before the end of this entry, my blog should be habitable again.
I guess there have been life changes, but aren't there always? I'll hit upon some of the ones that seem big now.
I did some strategic purging. I had spent a lot of the last few years chasing after people because I knew whatever mental disorder I've been doing battle with made me a lot less fun to be with than I used to be, but finally I became fed up. I don't know where I got the skill not to care, but holy cow does it feel good. At heart, I've always kind of suspected when people said they "didn't care" with regards to social situations, that they were secretly engaging in that Hegelian battle where both parties do whatever they can to gain recognition before giving it, and that the truth was they cared very much. Granted, I still suspect, probably rightly so, that many fast-talking young people do care most when they claim not to care at all, but I have learned that not caring is possible, and--what's more--empowering and liberating.
I don't really know how it happened. One day I just felt like I had nothing else to lose really. I stopped wanting anything from anybody except myself. Anything good anyone does for me is just a surprise windfall for me. I've redrawn my allegiances: I'm paying more attention to the people who have been good to me all year rather than the ones I feel like I'd gain some kind of social point by wooing.
I don't know if I had mentioned anything in any previous entry, but I did, after a five-year battle, finally let them put me on psychiatric medicine. Is this where I should attribute credit? Maybe. Obviously anything is more complex than pills, and when I started on medicine, things got way fucking worse before they got better. Summer has been the big change. Last summer I was in extreme pain and heartbroken. The summer before that I was doing community service, working at Waffle House, and again, heartbroken. This summer: I bask in edifying torpors where I endure the heat by studying and masturbating.
So often--and I will return to this point again and again--people, laymen, want to attribute life changes to changes in character rather than changes in environment. More and more I believe that people are produced by environment, and that individual agency is an unshakable fiction we use to explain being a conscious filter. I do not take credit for the recent improvements in the quality of my life any more than I took blame for exhibiting behaviors typical of a non-sexually dimorphic son of a sociopath and a debilitated alcoholic. In simplest terms: I really believe I'm just along for the ride.
My only complaint about my medication is really a blessing in disguise: it kills my sex-drive. This didn't happen at first; or rather, it happened, but then seemed to have subsided within a few days. Now the dampening of my desires seems stronger, but as I say, this might be a blessing: not having that particular desire makes me glad for other things. For example, recently I got a nasty bout of tonsillitis, and I wanted nothing more than sleep, a breeze, and soft food. Those things made me unreasonably happy.
The drive isn't absolutely gone. I just watched the Olympic trials for diving and went to the bathroom to puzzle out some kind of scene where a certain diver asks me what I can do to support my country's team. I tell him I can meet him in the locker room.
The Olympics actually remind me of something about myself: I secretly do love sports, just not team sports. Honestly, this preference is an impulse more than a reasoned out position, but I can still defend it. Team sports seem, to me, kind of based on a lie. Once upon a time maybe the players on a city's team actually had some history with that city, but that's no longer the case. The baseball players of my team, the Cleveland Indians, have no more to do with Cleveland than the workers of one Walmart have to do with those of another. In performance sports, however, my allegiance is with individual competitors, and that makes it so much easier for me to get invested. First of all, I want to fuck a lot of them. Second of all, I get interested in things like their personal histories, and watching them from one Olympic year to the next. I am very put off, for example, by Nastia Liukin's decline from 2008 to now. I am sure I am not the only one who thinks that at her best, she was actually a better gymnast than Shawn "Fievel Goes West" Johnson. At any rate, I'm so pumped for this coming month. I will drink beer and fist pump like any bearded straight suburbanite.
Why am I not holding a summer job? The original plan was to take out a modest student loan to support myself over the summer. Well, I've reaped what I sowed with my procrastination, and now I've wracked up two credit cards. I should be more worried than I am, but I have a way of pulling through everything somehow. Anyway, I've been spending the summer preparing myself to apply to PhD programs this fall. I should be working harder, and of all things, the Olympics are kind of making me want to work harder. I'm so impressionable: dude, what if someone trained at scholarship the way these young people train at sports? I read critical theory until I sweat.
Unrelated: because my two former roommates who finished up their degrees had bought our wireless router, they took it with them when they moved out, so now I have no wireless at my house except on my phone. I am typing this in a computer lab at the English building (wild!) at school. I'm surrounded by a bunch of monitors with astral starfish screen savers. They look cool here in the dark, except the autistic one in the corner that froze.
I have to come to terms with my Master's Thesis soon. I have about seven months to crank out the first draft, which anyone who's done that kind of work knows isn't nearly enough. I'll talk about it more once I get through the dreaded first pages, but my topic is interesting. I noticed a certain coincidence of characteristics in narrators in twentieth-century novels. There seem to be a lot of them who share all of these qualities: sexual frustration, madness, writing in fragments, implied suicide at the end of the novel. It reminds me of working at Jimmy John's last year, where many coworkers were: furries, DJs, and homosexuals. I think it'll be productive. It's informing my own fiction project (don't I always have one?), as well as my forays into taking a pill that stabilizes my moods while giving me that erectile profile of a seventy year old.
Before I wrap up this indecorously long entry, I'll mention one last change. Seriously, it's like I finally finished puberty. I don't know what happened, but I hardly recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I got manly. My brow has more sternness to it; my jawline is clearer; my shoulders look downright beastly. I really don't know when it happened, but other people have made comments. I feel like for the longest time my body had completed 94% of puberty and said good enough. Clothes that I felt comfortable in last fall suddenly look ridiculous on me. I had a hard time imagining what I'd look like as I aged, but now it's very clear. My hairline used to embarrass me (I have the typical man-M-shape, my man-line), but now it looks right. Maybe I'll post a more recent picture or something.
More has happened, but I'll have to make this a split entry.
I'll attach a picture of my cat climbing the screen of my front door. I know if he were human he'd be the biggest douchebag, homophobic, womanizing, empty-headed piece of fraternity shit, but he's not, so instead he just seems like a badass.
- CarlHoliday likes this