I’m sorry
I haven’t felt like writing
Or rather I’ve felt like it
But wasn’t sure what to say.
It’s an auspicious day for technology.
A new e-book reader. A new multi-touch mouse. Quad-core processors in the new iMacs.
And yet, I’ve been watching Deep Space Nine nonstop.
Jadzia and Miles seem more real to me than anything.
I started reading the first few pages of Cocaine Nights. Ballard’s world is terrible and wonderful, the seductive underbellies of Cadiz and Riyadh.
I’d like to be anywhere but here right now.
Going to see the new Lars Von Trier movie on Friday. Antichrist. With Yevgeny. That’s pretty much the only thing getting me through this week.
I want de facto, not de jure, monogamy. Maybe I don’t even want that.
I want a lasting and meaningful relationship with someone.
The problem seems to be, that there are guys I want to fuck, and guys I could fall in love with.
They are rarely in the same body. Sex, for me, has to have a devious element. A subversive element. A dirty element. There has to be an element of sleaze to it.
Guys I’m in love with, I don’t want to fuck them. The thought of fucking the hell out of them—anal sex—is revolting to me. I feel like I’ve reached a point in my life where I wouldn’t give a shit if I never gave or received anal sex again, I wouldn’t mind at all. It’s just so—revolting. I mean, I could suck dick all day long, but anal is just—weird.
I just had a beer, maybe that’s why this has become so scatological. I suppose it’s better than my occasional maudlin burpings.
I can feel my heart breaking when I’m naked with a guy and he just doesn’t really turn me on the way he should, and I know I have feelings for him, and I know that it’s going to end. Some guys turn me on endlessly—even after I finish I’m ready for more. It would probably be indecent to name names, but you know who you are. I just wish I could couple my emotional responses to my sexual responses.
There are guys that I can have great sex with but that a relationship is out of the question, and there are guys that I feel like I could easily fall in love with (or have already fallen for) that I don’t click with sexually. I find it difficult to decode the calculus of desire, but it doesn’t have much to do with attractiveness—it’s many variables that I don’t understand myself.
A guy showing a tender side of himself—reading an old love letter—something to that effect, can endear himself to me in ways that are ordinarily impossible.
I don’t know what I’m trying to get at here. I’m feeling unhappy this week, although I’m doing much better at my studies (I finally logged into the Spanish supersite for that $160 book and have been doing a bunch of the exercises). But still, no good concerts this week. I’m probably going to miss Midnight Juggernauts on Wednesday, since I have Spanish until late. The earliest I can get to the city is 9:30. There’s four opening bands, but doors open super-early at 6pm. I can’t imagine it would all be over at 10 though, I’m going to try my hardest to make it. I adore Midnight Juggernauts, and I didn’t ask anyone to go with me.
Oh, weird, this is the first show I’ve gone alone to in a long time. It will be therapeutic.
I wish I was as good a writer as J.G. Ballard. All I need to do is be put in an internment camp for my childhood. Well, I guess you could call Crescent City an internment camp. You can burn that fucking place to the ground.
I am an only child.
I have no friends from primary school that I still talk to.
I have no friends from high school that I still talk to.
I have no friends from community college that I still talk to.
If my experience with Jon taught me anything, it’s that I have a hard time empathizing with those that have strong connections with classmates and siblings.
Shit, I think I just broke my macbook’s power cord. I had it tangled up in my blankets and it was very hot, now it won’t charge my computer. Shit. It’d better work when it cools down. Or something.
I’ve been reflecting the past few weeks about how important it is to my personal mythos to be the outsider. I’m not sure if I’m really trying to be Meursault, but a large part of my identity is reflected in my aloofness, my inability to enjoy or understand the value place in things like the endless discussion of sports, network TV, etc.
It’s just the the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. We all have our mindless distractions, but when we have nothing to talk about but distractions, I think there’s something seriously wrong with our society.
If I ever base my life around network television, kill me. I’m serious. I do not want to live a life where I can’t wait until the next episode of Dexter.
Cut my head off and stick it on a pike as a warning to the next ten generations that stupidity comes with too high a price. Look up into my lifeless eyes and wave. *waavvee*
Nearly everything that other people do, I put in the category of “distraction.” Distractions from the immense power of the rich, distractions from how much every aspect of our lives gives more control and power to those who have money.
I want to live to see the day where we storm the Lower East Side and kill every single hedge-fund manager.
I get my story back tomorrow. I hope I got a good grade, but I doubt it. I despise that story now.
I feel gross, I’m going to take a shower.
Categories: Ennui