the diary of antoine roquentin

I thought I was going to be all productive and wash the dishes, and I ended up cutting my finger on this half-broken mug that my dad won’t throw away because he’s too cheap. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. I wonder if it’s because of all the ibuprofen I’ve been taking. Doesn’t that stuff thin your blood? Anyway, I think I’m going to turn my attention towards more benign forms of entertainment. My psych book is calling me. I hope this Band-Aid holds, or my room is going to look like a murder scene.

After work I noticed that there were cars at the theater, so I went over there to try my hand–er–feet at some DDR. I hadn’t practiced in a while, but I thought I would be at least moderately good. Last time I was there was that weekend that Brian came up, and the back button was stuck down. I thought that since a few weeks have passed, they had fixed it, but they didn’t. It didn’t stick down, but you basically had to put all of your weight at the very back of the button and hope that it would actually register. It worked about 20% of the time. I think I will try going back in a month or so, but if it’s not fixed by then I think unfortunately it’s the end of my dance revolution days.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my conversation with Brian last night. One of the things he said that particularly stuck in my mind was that I was talking about wanting him to be well read and to make jokes referencing Sartre or something and we would be the only ones that would get them, and he was all “I don’t like making fun of people because they are stupid.”

And there, I think, is our main point of incompatibility. I love making fun of stupid people. It’s what I do. What else is there to do in Crescent City? I go to my classes solely to hear people ask questions like “What is a protagonist?” and to hear my teachers make up words (“filmatic”) to make themselves sound intelligent.

I think I’m going to buy more books. My current pile of rejects doesn’t have much gold left in it. I have about 20 pages left in Civilization and Its Discontents, and then the only thing I have left is Naked Lunch. I have to say, I’m not really in love with Naked Lunch. I mean, the writing is superb and my eyes glide effortlessly through the pages, but I’m a bit too used to reading Freud, Baudrillard and McLuhan. They are dry. A slow, painstaking dance between abstraction and concreteness. But at the end of the novel, it’s painfully obvious what they’re trying to say. I’m not really in the mood for the emphasis on reality that I’m seeing through William S. Burroughs. I think I’m going to get some books about mathematics and string theory.

It turned out that my potato salad wasn’t so bad after all. I had some this morning and maybe it was because all the flavors had time to seep into each other, but it’s actually tasted like potato salad, not potatoes coated in mayonnaise. So yay.

My God, another random person has messaged me. Haven’t we all gotten this MySpace message?

“Hey! Remember me? It’s (insert name here)! What’s up?”

And you go to their profile and there is only a picture of like a cat if they are a girl or a car if it’s a guy. They live in some random town close to you, but you can’t place them at all. And it’s even worse when they have a photo, and no matter how hard you stare you know that at one time your friends with this person, but can’t remember what you did or how you met. So you send them a message back playing along like you know who they are. We’ve all done it. And I’m doing it right now.

Categories: Ennui

> Crossover – Lucida Obscura

Guess who called me tonight? Brian.

He called at 1 AM. He doesn’t have phone, but he walked from his house to his work to use their phone. I guess he was feeling nostalgic or something. I must have seemed like a heartless asshole to him, but I was honest. I don’t know what he stands for. I don’t know what he wants to do with his life. You know… it’s odd. Back in my phase when I was an emo kid (shut up Kevin), all I wanted to do was find a guy to spend the rest of my life with. Back then I had no idea that people would actually like me who I didn’t like enough to consider spending my life with them.

Brian is a great guy I guess… but what I basically told him is I don’t know his philosophy. The sad fact is, he doesn’t have one. He hasn’t read Camus. He hasn’t read Sartre. He doesn’t understand me at all. I can’t believe I have reached a point in self-esteem where a guy talks about wanting someone to spend the rest of his life with I tell him that I don’t think we’re right for each other. He told me that he wanted something more “serious.” I told him what I felt was important in this world. Science. Technology. Knowledge. Philosophy. The Internet. Instantaneous communication. The sum of all human knowledge downloaded in two seconds right to your hard drive. I wanted to know what he felt about everything. I wanted to know what he wanted to do with his life. He didn’t have any answers for me, unfortunately. I finally asked in the question that I never asked because I know that once I ask it, a relationship is over. “What’s your favorite novel?” I inquired.

He said he wouldn’t tell me because he thought some things are more important than novels. “Name one,” I said.

“Well, moral things.” he said.

Moral things.

I think it just comes down to the fact that I don’t respect people that don’t read. I think that I did a Taggart. Starting a relationship I knew was doomed. Avoiding all of the important topics. Avoiding the “L” word. What is that platitude that they sometimes use at the end of cartoons? “When you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?” I wanted to beat Taggart. And this is what I’ve become.

As we were about to get off the phone, I asked him. “What you think is the most important thing?” He wouldn’t tell me. He said I wouldn’t find it important. And he did the eighth grade girl thing and wouldn’t tell me. I was honest with him the whole time, and that was what I got? What ever.

He kept saying how he was thinking about me and missed me, and I didn’t tell him, but to be quite honest, I hadn’t given him a second thought. I feel like a terrible person. At least I was honest though. For the first time in this whole thing, I’m actually agitated. Christ.

I did get a lot done tonight. I finished Chapter four and got halfway through Chapter five in my psychology book. I need to finish Chapter six by Wednesday. I really should read Chapter seven, because my psych “teacher” is going to attempt to teach it to us in class and since she is incapable of teaching I’m going to have to learn it myself.

I also made potato salad tonight. It took hours, and turned out tasting mildly gross, but that was probably because I was missing two ingredients (mustard and vinegar) and used this one spice that only after adding it I noticed the sell by date: “Best if used by Mar 98.” It wasn’t gross enough to throw out though. I think I will have some for breakfast tomorrow. I love being able to cook. I’m just used to living in my mom’s house where no matter what I would cook I would always have the right ingredients on hand. Now I’m in a really bad mood. I feel guilty for telling the truth. I bared my soul and he only took off his shoes. Is it unfair that I can’t be with a guy who doesn’t know what he wants out of life? Is it wrong that I can’t go out with a guy who doesn’t read Kafka?

I feel terrible. I should go to sleep and get all of this ridiculousness out of my head. On a somewhat happy note, I downloaded this glorious band called Crossover. If you put Alice from Alice in Wonderland, Felix Da Housecat, the chick from Portishead, a Swiss stripper, Vladmir and Estragon from Waiting for Godot, and the guy from Orbital in a room and made them make music, this is what you come out with. It’s soft, melodic, and has really intricate melodies, catchy beats, and esoteric, yet repetitive and pointless vocals. The lyrics are like…this LSD-enhanced voyage through 18th century fairy tales… I love them but I really need to sleep. It’s 1:30.

Categories: Ennui