Monday September 23rd, 2002 - 22:47

What's the only thing worse than being stupid?

Being smart and then having it go away.

I think that when I was younger I was "smart for my age."

At least that's what everyone always told me.

"My, you're awfully smart for your age."

Yeah. But now, not so much. I guess when I was smart for my age, I stuck there. Sure, I'm smarter than the average 16 or 17 year old, but what does that say? People who are my age are like eighteen times smarter than me.
Assuming intelligence increases exponentially with age.

It's such a bizarre feeling. Living in the past. You dismantle everything that's ever happened to you until you've pulled apart each individual moment to be analyzed so you can bring them forth into memory to go over them again. Like an archaeological dig of your feelings and experiences. As a result you get kind of distanced from it all.

Yes, I've had girlfriends. But do I remember the girlfriends? Not really. I can visualize myself doing things with my former girlfriends, but much like you can visualize Tom Cruise flying an airplane. You know it happened because you watched it on television. Or the moviescreen. That's how my memories are to me. A movie. A televison program. I can watch them over and over again, but I never really feel the G Force from the plane. I never feel the fear of the plane stalling and me plummeting to my death. I just watch and think that I must have been having a good time.

Or a bad time. Depending on what the situation is.

Of course as a result everything that's ever happened to me can be experienced anew as if it never occured. See an ex-girlfriend? Sleep with her again, for the very first time!

I just finished "A beautiful Mind", and I'm wondering if someday someone's going to knock on my door and haul me off to some mental hospital. At least I won't have to worry about what I'll wear everyday.

Although I guess I'm safe. Steve says that since I'm prone to saying "Jesus, I'm insane." outloud, that I can't actually be insane. His reasoning is that people who are actually insane, don't ever say that they're insane, because they don't want anyone to know.

Of course I could be past that part, and I am actually insane, I'm just reeling from being insane.

Like when you get into a car accident. You're like "Holy shit! That was a car accident!"

I have been known to state the obvious on occasion.

By my thinking, maybe I can make it so the reverse is true: Anything I say outloud will become fact.

"Boy, I'm just the richest man ever!"

Didn't seem to work.

I may be the richest man ever, but I'm certainly not the most original. I think I just ripped off about six movies there. And probably a few books.

My birthday is in one hour and thirteen minutes.

One could argue that I don't particuarly like my birthday.

Call it a fear of mortality. An inherent dislike of people repeating the same phrase over and over again, or whatever. The point is: I don't like my birthday.

I used to just stay inside. But that never really works. Inevitably I answer the phone and it's some jackass friend of mine shouting "Happy Birthday!" on the other end. Way to kill the mood, buddy. How can I brood in silence if you're being all fucking cheery on the other end of the phone?

Oh. I'm not supposed to be using the F-word too much. Mom said so.

My apartment is becoming interesting. Steve and Marc cleaned the entire place. Organized the office. Even the loft is nice and spiffy. There's one room that's a complete disaster. Can you guess which one?

That's right. My room.

I'm almost resentful of Steve. He seems to be everything that's good about a roommate that I am not. He cleans. He cooks. He runs errands. He remembers things and doesn't forget what day it is. He's a walking goddamned Palm Pilot with arms.

I guess this would be a bigger deal if I was constantly seeking Marc's approval. But I'm not. I'm here. They're here. I'll stop being here. They'll keep being here. Or visa versa. Or whatever.

Eventually I'll probably pack up and move back into my parents house anyway. Except that the door doesn't have a doorknob anymore. And they probably would have converted it into a freezer, or something equally small given the size of the room and the limited number of options for it.

I often think that it would be nice if I was in Seattle. But I also often think that it would be nice if it was 1994, and I know that's probably not true. This probably circles around to my not being in touch with reality all that much.

And then I go back to asking myself: Was I always like this?

I mean. Did no one ever fucking - er, bleeping - notice? Or was no one paying attention?

If I've always been this much of a whackjob, shouldn't I be on some sort of medication? Or in a rubber room? Don't they specifically not give guns to people like me, or let them operate heavy machinery?

And by sitting here and typing all this nonsense out, do I make myself more insane, or do I invalidate it all and make it seem as though I'm screaming out for love and attention by pretending to be neurotic?

Someday I'll make something that actually goes through and answers all these questions.

Or I'll do it right now.

1. I don't think I was always like this. I think it's somewhat recent. Traumatic events. Getting older. Dealing with not having nothing to worry about besides High School and pulling off skipping it today and not getting caught. I wasn't always like this. But I certainly don't know when it happened or how to fix it.

2. If I *had* been always like this, no one would have noticed. I barely talked to anyone, and those I did were pretty sure I was just nuts anwyay, and they never said anything, so I'm probably covered there.

3. I wouldn't have taken medication anyway. Hell, I'm sick right now and I haven't taken advil or anything. I'll get better. Always do. I'm not sure how I'd deal with a gun, or why I'd want one, but I have operated heavy machinery and did so just fine, thank you very much.

4. I think that typing all this out is more cathardic than anything else. I spout nonsense like this off to people sometimes but they just look at me worriedly. Or they shrug. Or laugh. Or whatever. They really aren't much help. But they really can't be. It's all internalized. So no, I don't think I'm just trying to get attention. The exact opposite, if anything. I wouldn't mind a little bit more love, but I've said that before (Please send all inquiries to: sweetlovin @ infliction dot org).

In conclusion:

Jesus christ I'm insane.


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