Oh, If Only I Could Sleep

Hey, so I can’t sleep. Ever. Maybe it will kill me and save me the trouble.

For whatever reason, I can’t get to sleep until 11:30PM. When your wake-up call is 5:45AM, you can see how this causes problems.

Of course, this does nothing for my general mood.

Lately, my pretty little hate machine has been working on smokers.

If you smoke anything–tobacco, weed, meth, whatever–I hate you and think you’re a waste of space.

Let me give you some background one where I come from. I am an asthmatic–an allergic asthmatic, which is nature’s way of saying “fuck you, fucking fucker asshole” every day for your entire life. Despite treatment, my lung function just isn’t where I want it to be. If I was able to breathe, I would run marathons, hike mountains, climb trees, learn to swim, etc. I would go outside without wearing a dust mask. I would have all sorts of pets. I would breathe deeply of the smell of grass. I would enjoy life.

So when I see you smokers–and knowing that most of you have, at least for now, decent lung function–I get pissed. You get these nice, functioning lungs and you fill them with shit. You suck down your cancer day after day, year after year, then you start bawling if or when–often when–you get cancer. You expect people to feel sorry for you! Well, I don’t feel sorry for you. As far as I’m concerned, you asked for it. You asked for the pain, you asked to gasp for air (like I do many times a week), you asked for chemo. You signed up for this.

This isn’t the age of Big Tobacco anymore. The dangers of smoking cigarettes or any other sort of substance is well-documented. So unless you’re living in fucking North Korea or you’re some illiterate farmer living in some third world country, you have no excuse.

Don’t give me this “wah wah it’s so hard to quit” bullshit. Never before has there been more ways to quit. Never before has there been more support for people who want to stop destroying their bodies. You don’t quit because, deep down, you don’t want to. If you truly wanted to quit, there would be nothing stopping you. You would be streaking into that good night, no longer a smoker. You would do whatever it takes. But until you truly, truly want it, you’re always going to be that scum-sucking piece of shit you are. No, right now things seem okay. So things will always be okay, right?

(And if there’s anyone out there wondering if I’m trying to encourage people to quit or what, I’m not. Please feel free to fuck yourselves up. Why the hell would I care about you?)

The older I get, the more convinced I am that people deserve the things that come around to them, myself included.

Oh, don’t even get me started on this nice portion of karma that gets stuffed into my eye sockets regularly. You have no idea–no idea. Mommy dearest, alarmed that I’m hurtling toward my 30s and have no friends and have never been on a date, is now pushing me to get out and socialize. After all, where is she going to get grandchildren? Who’s going to care for her when she’s old?

Brilliant. News flash: the time to encourage your mentally ill, retarded children to be normal is, yanno, when they’re children. The time to get them professional help is when they’re children. You can’t ignore your child’s depression, eating disorder, and anxiety disorders and then say “gosh golly gee, what happened?” when you end up with a reclusive, angry adult whose only redeeming quality is they’re able to hold down a job.

Mommy dearest, even more alarmed, is demanding that I go to therapy. Since I’m not going to go out and socialize, I guess I’ll make a half-assed attempt at therapy so the old bitch will get off my back. The guilt is eating at her, in part because I told her, point blank, that she fucked up, and her half-hearted attempts to get me help ten years after my problems started are not fooling me. It scares me sometimes how much my mother must think I’m retarded.

I don’t know what I’m going to get out of therapy. All therapy has ever been for me is re-hashing the same shit over and over again, with me always skirting the truth on some topics, because I’m not stupid enough to say anything that might get me committed. Not only that, but. . . I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk to anyone outside of the context of work. Sure, I can be friendly, almost normal, when I can find people I trust, and we’re working within very specific time and space boundaries, but in a therapist’s office there just aren’t enough boundaries and I don’t have enough “can’t even” to blab about my life.

Anything I get from a therapist can be obtained by my writing here and then reading the latest sappy self-help book. My problem is not that I have no self-realization. My problem is I have a lot of self-realization. I know I have depression, perhaps bipolar depression, or maybe just plain old BPD. I know I don’t have a healthy relationship with food. I know the fact that I really don’t care who I hurt is a problem. I know the fact that I try to use people is not an attractive trait in anybody. I know I have narcissistic and histrionic tendencies. I know I have social anxiety and agoraphobia. I know I have an anger management problem. But I’m operating from within this fucked up system, and it’s fucked up enough that you just can’t fix it. Not to mention that anything approaching depression or BPD is basically a long-running death sentence. You can jump on it and let it kill you like a landmine, you can numb your faces with pills, or you can let it enervate you until you’re a husk hung up in the corner.

I know I’m not very smart, and that I’ve faked my way through a lot of things. I know that I’m not a pleasant person.

There’s not much that can be done. Sorry for those with mental illness looking for hope. Depending on what particular configuration of mental illnesses you have, you may be fucked. Do what you will with that information.

Any happy stories you read about mental illness I’ve concluded are from people with milder problems. Plus, don’t you think they have a vested interest in perpetuating some happy-sappy, hippy-dippy message? Especially if they’re selling something–anything. Even a two-page pamphlet.

Don’t get me wrong. To some degree, I may be a sociopath, but I do get lonely. Sometimes I long for that human connection that I’ve never been lucky enough to have. Then I remember how territorial I am, how bad my temper is, and how lacking in affection I am. There’s no one out there for a person like me. Oh, and I’m asexual. And I despise kids. I’d throw both you and your kids in a pit.

And anyway, I hate all of you. Every last stinking, puling one of you. Just looking at you fills me with anxiety and anger.

I got a new laptop, meaning I won’t be writing on a phone anymore, meaning that I may be writing more in this journal. Depends on how pissy I’m feeling.

Posted in Spirituality

Attraction and Repulsion

The world, I suppose, is not anything at all. Things exist and appear to be separate, but really there is only one principle. At the level at which we operate, it makes no sense to dwell on this monistic supposition, so I won’t go away into it.

I am attracted to and repelled by this world. It seems the only reason this happens is because it happens. That is, I am attracted and repulsed because I let myself be, because I am human, because I am a wandering deer. This world is a projection of my mind. I have created my own reality and there is no escape from it. We are all trapped in our projected realities, which is why we suffer and hate so much.

I might project attractive qualities to, say, an apple. I might say an apple is bright, juicy, sweet. You might project repulsive qualities to that apple: it is dull, watery, and too tart. Neither of us are wrong, but switch the apple for things like money, power, happiness,  etc and we are all monumentally miserable.

I have read some of the words of the sages, who say we can walk away from these things, but I do not wholly comprehend them.

Posted in Spirituality


In all the universes that have, currently, and will exist, I wish there was one where I’m not so lost. Nigh on twenty-seven years have I wandered around like a fool with nothing to show for it but frivolous affectations. The worry of it is if something truly did change, would I recognize it?

Right now, I am looking for a new job since my current one has become unpalatable. I had an interview last week for a job that I’m all but burning for. I must confess that my interviews could have been better but they also could have been much, much worse. At the end, the seniors said they would look into what the next steps of the process are, but I’m not holding out much since no one has gotten back to me. Yes, it is more than possible I will hear back, since my interview was just on Wednesday. At the same time I have also learned of the futility of hope. It seems every time a hope is fulfilled, there is some dirty catch that turns a hope into the devil’s pitchfork.

How cruel to talk about moving a hopeful to the next stage of a process, then not following up quickly! Is the devil not enough? Has he gathered recruits? Perhaps, after all, the devil is no longer enough to jab blights such as I.

I dearly wish that somewhere there is an affirmation that I am, indeed, loved and wanted in some way or another. It gets cold being alone. And if my cry in the ether goes unanswered then should I be a maltheist? Should I be a misanthrope?  Should I point to the green crossroad near my home and say, “this is a hateful thing?” just as I point to my malaise and say the same? Should I turn my back on a kind face and say “where were you when I died in the gutter?”

Why do I even bother to ask you, when I don’t need your pity?

Oh, I know where my physical studies are taking me: right onto mediocrity though I should be able to support myself until I find the right time to shuffle off. And I know where my spiritual studies should be taking me, or perhaps I don’t. I find it difficult to trust a person, let alone a deity. If I chanted om namah shivaya I should make a liar out of myself, because I haven’t an idea if the Lord of Love is going to hear that din. If he did, what would I do? I am no longer filled with the reckless,  exuberant confidence that ultimately led to my demise. Sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out if I had met Bastet when I was older, more emotionally stable (albeit more suicidal), and more sadly aware of the state of affairs that will, no doubt, one day bring me to wrap a wire around my throat and affix the further end to a doorknob.

I have so many major and petty karmas. I believe I must have murdered someone in some farflung life to be in these dire straits. Thus, even if I believed there was a Lord of Love so inclined to reach out or hear my chanting, he’d walk away from the bloody mess that I am. Yes, despite being a god of the ashes and ghouls and those with nowhere else to go, Lord Shiva has some fucking dignity. That’s more than I can say for myself or the rest of you corporeal prats.

There is a line in the Gita where Krishna says, “you are very dear to me.” Does that apply to all the devas? And do I believe it?

If I comprehend Narada, then something has to give–me. And I don’t mean give like walk into a store with a bazooka and cyanide teeth; I mean I’m expected to let go of all this hurt and disappointment and anger for something I’m not sure exists. But I have developed an attitude that the world ought to come to me, because I am a wounded deer in the desert. Have the gods not come down to me more than I deserve? You people never have. So I suppose the missing element is out there with you. You have all promised and so often failed to deliver. No matter what I do, I am never enough for you, and so therefore have ceased to care about your existence.

I am supposed to see expressions of the Lord of Love on all of you. Where am I supposed to find him? He should be there…do the scriptures lie, or have they simply become defunct in the modern person? I am not a seer or a sage and cannot pretend to be any sort of final authority on the matter. All I know is I have seen love in the trees and stars and waters and sun and moon. I have seen it in a wisp of fog and a tremble of steam. I have seen it, even, in austere cathedrals, cemeteries, and hills laid bare by fire. I have seen it in a horse’s canter, a dog’s begging stare at the table, and the out spread wings of every bird.

But I have looked into my and your eyes and have seen no such thing. I have watched you tend your children and your pets and all I see are mechanical wind ups performing the same tasks again and again. I have listened to you in churches and mosques. I have heard you sing and where are you? You could be anywhere.

You are not here. The Lord of Love is not here, yet there is nowhere where he is not. What is the answer to this painful mystery? The Lord must be in the empty space. Shiva: god of the gaps. Not so far from his nature, either. If you are there, lord, then let me put down this burden for awhile. What little things are you trying to teach me–what great? I have seen your fire-tipped teeth…

I have seen that terrible bow, and I tremble at thinking of what damage it can do as you launch arrows down the axes of time. I have felt the loneliness of Kailash and was not able to think of it as solitude. I can intellectualize, but otherwise the pain is too great.

It does not matter if I read the Gita, or Narada, or Shvetashvatara, or any of those. Nor does it matter if I double back into the weeds seeking what I had, thinking a stiletto in the back better than the Great White Nothing. It all leads to the same place, with ragged sleep the sole relief.

Posted in Spirituality

If only it were out of laziness I did nothing

How I should respect myself then.

I am faced with unpalatable prospect of suicide being my only option. Of course, it’s far out in the future. Everyone dies someday, myself included, so no sense in being a damn fool and hurrying it. I’ve created my plan and am mulling over the details of my suicide note. It makes me feel better that they’re prepared in the event I am suddenly seized with the realization that my time has come. I am such a coward that any stay of execution will prolong my suffering. That’s why I never killed myself when I was a child. There were simply so many things I had not bothered to prepare ahead of time that I frittered away what little resolve I had at nine years old.

My mental health continues its precipitous decline. My anxiety has reached a paranoid fever pitch, so that the visual hallucinations flit in and out of the corner of my vision. My agoraphobia has grown so severe I can no longer leave my apartment outside of specified times, which expand and shrink as pleases them and with no logical reason. Sleep comes after a long time of lying alone, as always, in the dark. When sleep comes, it doesn’t always stay. I’ve come to hate being around people, hate the way they look, smell, talk, act. All I want to do is hop in my car and run over as many of them as possible.

My depression continues to weigh me down into an abyss from which I cannot be retrieved, namely because I don’t want to be. At this point I think I’d rather die than be rescued. All I can ask the feeble ray of light is this: why now? Why not when I still had some shred of self-respect and self-esteem?  Why not when there was still an opportunity for me to become normal?

I am a dystheist bordering on maltheist. I feel like, despite the good times, the final goal was to always beat me down into someone’s rug, something that may have been agreeable had I received anything other than stilettos ground into my spine. What I have really wanted these past twenty-seven years is somewhere I belong and am wanted for more than a server with a manacle around their ankle. I wanted to be a person, but I have not been permitted to even become an insect. I wanted to be part of humanity, but I am just a bearskin rug hung worn and dirtied in the cosmic flea market. No one wants me and I don’t want them In fact, I hate all of you. Hate is all you’ve ever taught me. You all deserve whatever awful things you receive.

I have done nothing with my life.

If only it was out of laziness I did nothing! How I should respect myself then.

Whatever I choose to do, I want someone, anyone, to know that I hung on for as long as I could. My apologies for taking up your precious air. Maybe I ought to stay and become one of those spiteful old bastards that lives seemingly forever. If I could I would make all you people’s lives miserable.

I am a misanthrope. I don’t feel bad for any of you people. In fact, as years drag on, I think of you less and less and as much as possible treat you with the same disregard you have for me. It doesn’t matter to me if I hurt you on my way back to my rusty old basement. It’s near impossible for me to empathize with you because I don’t care about you. And tell me why I should. You’ve never returned the favor when I did.

By the way, I don’t care about your kids, either. If you’re lucky I’ll dial 999 if I see yours locked in a hot car, and only if I’m feeling a need for a bit of hollow thanks and praise. I judge what and how to help or interact with you based on how humanity in general would act or interact. As it so happens most people would be happy to leave you lying in the street guttering in blood. If you don’t believe me, stop looking at your hippy dippy happy first world and see what the rest of it amounts to.

You are all insufferable bores who have become so utterly predictable I want to kill myself just at the thought of it.

I want to write more but am rambling as it is. I have a big rant about how much I hate all of you and the rest of the world, but it’s quite a bit to type up. Some weekend or another, I suppose.

Posted in Spirituality

Take this weight off my shoulders

I’m typing on my phone. Forgive my errors or fuck off.

Bored. I am so bored suicide seems like a legitimate way to cure myself. My boredom is a terminal illness, brought on by the fact that I am not stupid enough to be content with the every day, yet am not brilliant enough to rise above it. In many ways I am above average and above average gets you absolutely nothing these days. Why should it? Everyone gets a consolation prize, after all…

You may think everything I say is some affectation or another and you wouldn’t be wrong. With the number of books I read, a lack of affectation would show a criminal lack of self-awareness. It would be positively scandalous. Here in my little corner I ought to stamp around while Zverkov and the jerkoffs toast one another. Of course I will be sorry after writing all this, but never sorry enough to repent or change because, like the man Underground, I suspect there may be nothing to change into. My conscience will hit me like the vapors, then the wind will blow it away. So what, then? Are you laughing yet? Everyone always laughs.

My problem right now, I think, is that I grew up on a fattening diet of books. Interesting things, by definition, always happen in books. So I developed, isolated by bullying, depression, and for ten years, an unwarranted sense of superiority. I  grew expecting an adventure. I grew with Dumas, Hugo, Nabokov, Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Jacques, Dick, Bradbury, King. My mother never allowed me to read books she considered childish after I reached ten. At ten she took Goosebumps out of my hands and placed in them the Man in the Iron Mask and King Lear. They were entrancing, a unique, special world in which I could rescue myself just a little longer.

Oh, how I wanted to join my luminaries! How I dreamed of finding some adventure in life or mind to commit to paper, something that would show everyone I’m worth something after all, so let’s find some other idiot to torment. I have always wanted to be heard, but have discovered that not all of us are destined to stand out against the wallpaper. I am a disgusting old woman before even reaching old age. We do not heed our elders. Why would I expect you to hear me?

Just an Underground Man, hiding from the whore I lied to. Just an Underground Man, forty years old with a yellow stain on my trousers. . . .Anyway, I grew fat with imagination. For years I waited, then looked, for my grand, literary adventure. Some kind of romance, a tear in the space-time continuum, a fire-breathing dragon, a scandal, anything. This is real life, of course; I’m silly for still looking for adventure to relieve the suffocating silence of boredom. I am sick, dissipated. An adventure would be offensive to my nervous constitution. (I am so, so nervous, every nerve frayed to alost nothing. Someday I am sure to snap.) Not only that, what would I even do with an adventure? Gawk at it, I suppose. Take a few pictures. Journal about it. Leash it and turn it in to the municipal shelter.

“I found this adventure wandering around lost. Surely someone is looking for the poor idiot. Otherwise some other person would be interested in adoption.”

Just now I wrote adoption as exhaustion. A Freudian slip, I suppose, for I am, indeed, exhausted. There is no support or pleasure in my life. Food has no taste. Nature is foreboding rather than soothing. My books are distractions, as much a pain as a pleasure. My sleep is caught in snatches, often jarred to pieces by night terrors where I wake up screaming for help that will never come. My collie has passed away. My future is a garbage freight on the ocean. Every day I watch my chances for happiness slip away.

At my age I should be dating, settling down, even. There should be talks of marriages, children, a life built together. There should be get-togethers with friends. There should be pleasant vacations. There should be years of photographs, but there are virtually no photos of me after 2006. I do not live in people’s hearts or their scrapbooks.

You may ignore me, or blame me, or turn up your nose at my affectations. My affectations are all I have. You will never extend your hand, not truly. Out of pity or martyrdom perhaps. I see right through you. You are all utterly predictable. You do not fool me.

Bored. . .

So bored.

My most fervent prayer is this: after we all–human, animal, plant, mineral, liquid, spirit, god–have spent our allotted years on this sickening rock, may there be nothing else afterward. Then we can all sleep and no one will be better than anyone else.


Posted in Spirituality

To the Person Who Sent me the “Inspirational” Email

I don’t know how you got my email address, but you can fuck right the fucking fuck off.

I am so sick of you people. In the past, I’ve spent so many hours trying to be your friend, trying to get your attention, trying to be part of whatever clique-y little bullshit parade you’re part of. But you never let me in, do you? No matter how nice, cool, mean, stupid, or whatever I am, I can’t be part of whatever hand-me-down fuckery you learned from some other idiot.

But every once in awhile, your conscience strikes you. You make a few sympathetic murmurs, then go on acting just as you were. Who do you think you’re fooling? I’m crazy, not stupid. I see right through you.

Oh, dear letter writer. If only I had time to tell you all the ways you can go fuck yourself. Every line of your insipid, self-serving email makes me want to cut myself. Oh hell, the opening alone is enough to make me want to drink a bottle of ipecac and die:

I saw your post. I’ve been following you for a long time and I want you to know it gets better. Things do get better! Promise! I know because. . .

Blah-blah-fukken-blah. Let me stop you there, lady (going to assume you’re a lady because I want to). If you had any idea of what I’m going through, you’d know it doesn’t get better. No, it only gets worse. My mental constitution has become a terminal disease and it is rapidly killing me. I am profoundly nervous, depressed, anxious, and, at times, paranoid.

Things just don’t get better. Every time something nice happens, some other catastrophe balances it out. The universe hates me. It’s hated me since I was born. It hates me now.

I’m depressed, lonely, misanthropic, bored, and afraid of even breathing too loudly lest the delicate balance of what little life I have gets toppled into the abyss.

You don’t know shit. Stop it with your hypocritical, arrogant bullshit. You don’t know me, you have no idea how I’ve suffered, and you have no idea how hard I’d bite you if I knew where to find you.

My life doesn’t tend to get better, but your letter sure does!

Right now it’s hard to see, but you’re loved.

By who? Santa Claus? I have one (elderly) family member, no friends, no gods. Just a collie. A collie who would probably fuck off into the sunset if her food bowl was empty for too long. How about instead of assuming people have other people in their life, you think a bit. But oh, that wouldn’t give you a chance to crow, would it? You wouldn’t be able to write like you’re some inspirational angel fate has sent to somehow turn me into a better person. Or whatever bullshit you morons are hawking these days.

It hurts. . . [Things aren’t] all bad. . . .

They are when you’re so mentally ill you can barely leave the apartment.

They are when you’re so mentally ill you haven’t had a good, high functioning day in YEARS. (In fact, I have no idea what the day of a high functioning person looks like.)

Things are all bad when you’re an autistic who never received intervention, and are consequently barely able to function in society.

They are all bad when you have people spewing self help all over your inbox. My inbox is filthy now because of your saccharine hypocrisy.

I suggest therapy.

I suggest you fuck yourself.

Your fake bullshit is not welcome here. Take it elsewhere if you’re looking for pats on the head.


Posted in Spirituality | Tagged

No Brickz Plz

Well, as the pantsless piggy said, “that’s all, folks!”

Of course, nothing is ever really over, right? There’s always some continuation of the story because humanity and the Powers are so goddamn bored. I’m convinced that a great number of the world’s atrocities and calamities have started with one or more people being bored. Boredom should be a crime. If you’re convicted of it more than once, you ought to have your head dunked in the Styx and then maybe you’ll mind your foolishness.

Anyway, I’m writing all of this to say I give up until, inevitably, the Powers get bored and fuck with me again. That’s been my whole life: a series of minor to catastrophic cluster fucks born from people so bored they start thinking with what’s in between their legs rather than what’s rattling around in the jabber box on top of their heads.

In the case of the Powers, I suspect they are irritated by me, yet at the same time have no concern for me at all. They are in their houses, windows well-lit, and I am out here in the dark streets. But the fabric of the universe reverberates with that irritation, scattering upon me a million star points of aggravation and frustration. It’s rarely anything devastating–I am fortunate to have been smart enough not to mortally offend. Rather, it’s always getting caught in traffic, always losing things, the dropped screw that rolls a mile away, the emptiness, the million-million little things that bear up in the day, causing you to crack at night when it’s quiet and you realize, for the hundredth time that day, that you are alone. That there is no one in the entire world who really cares if you live or die. That there is no being corporeal or otherwise who will be there to bless your benighted soul when it leaves your heaving carcass.

Finally, finally I am admitting defeat, that there is nothing out there in the quiet universe for me, that I put the nails in my coffin long ago and now what awaits is the second death where I will go to the jaws of a crocodile and irritate no more.

Last week, I screamed at the universe at the top of my lungs. Leave me alone! Don’t help me! Don’t hurt me! I’ll figure it out on my own.

And suddenly, a huge peace descends upon me because I am not interesting or relevant to the universe or any of its luminous dignitaries. I am on my own, to forge whatever path I can.

As I sit here thinking, I can’t help but feel disillusioned and dystheistic. For sure, I believe in Powers, but now I wonder: do they have my best interests at heart at any point? We have to admit the Powers have their own agendas, agendas that may not be delayed (thus the tsunami swallows the land, for heaven’s sake). They are like any other living being. But at some point, a person like me thinks that they are, perhaps, more often than not in the way of agendas.

Not only that, but I have given away so much of myself for free in the hopes of reciprocation and adulation that I suppose I have reduced myself to no value at all. So here I am gathering what little dignity I have left and I will not share it. It’s mine. It belongs to my new life.

The Powers are not interested in me at all. Rather, I am the speck in their eye and the Powers do not have good plans for the specks in their eye. I am a mere useless blip on the radar, a minor aberration in a heartbeat that only the hypochondriac notices.

Which is why I’ve become such a dystheist. I suspect the Powers’ motives and have lost much of my trust in them. I’ve lost trust in lots of things. The problem of evil was never a problem for me–I’ve always known that the Powers aren’t omnibenevolent, nor can they be trusted to have our best interests at heart all the time. Rather, I’m starting to suspect a vein of deliberate malice in the Powers, beyond the tricksters, even. This frustrates me because there are still Powers I remember who are still the spokes in my wheels. I guess we could say the sun will always shine in darkness (else it’s not the sun), but it’s not pleasant to think about.

I don’t know why I wrote this entry. I guess I want to let people know where I stand. Not that there’s anyone who cares about what I say. I have a tendency to drive people to crime–to boredom. Out of concern for their heads, people leave me alone. Until I stop being such an insufferable bore, my only friend will be my collie, my imagination, and the circle of acquaintances who pretend to care about my existence.

You see, I have no reason to remain here on earth save for the love of a dog. Thankfully, a dog is exempt from the pernicious crime of being bored. That is, a dog could be out of its skull with me, and there will be no cosmic judge to condemn it to being dunked in the Styx. That would be such a sad thing to see! A bold, Borzoi head dipping into the Styx, and probably coming out vandalized like an urban tortoise shell.

I have no reason to remain here on earth. There is nothing here that’s of much interest. I have, over and over again, committed the crime of being bored. As the old saying goes, “surely I am doomed”. The strange thing is, none of these thoughts come from depression, or suicidal fantasies. Nor do they come from the tail end of a dextromethorphan dose, although I’ve had enough in the past several days to become paranoid. . . . My problem is ennui. It’s not even world-weary ennui. It is just a no-bricks-please ennui. I am quite dented as it is.

So no, I won’t kill myself. In fact, as I sit here thinking about it more, I’m not going to hurt myself because that would please the benches. You all put me here. You’re going to have to deal with me until my number’s up and my head goes under. I may be out here in the dark street with the profligates, the atheists, and whoever else doesn’t live in this village, but I have myself, my dog, and an unpleasant lesson to keep me company.

We so often tell the stories of newbies, and of devouts in beautiful service to their Powers. We never tell stories like mine, because they are unfortunate truths. All of you out there–few of you will end up like me, but many of you will, to a certain degree, find doors slammed in your face. The inconvenient truth in a polytheistic world is there is no certainty of anything. Nothing truly revolves around anything else, and relationships are dynamic. One day you’re trying to get yourself together, the next day you’ve finally accomplished it and there’s nowhere to go. There are reasons why in some cultures the Powers could be legitimately abandoned, or struck out from memory. . . and there’s a reason why there are people like me in the world

I’m not saying this is my last blog entry like I have in the past. I am so damned bored there’s no telling when or if I’ll return, no telling when I’ll feel like making a statement no one cares about again. Nor is there any telling what the future holds, or what lights may shine or go out, or what things my collie and I may see to report back on. There is no telling if a door may one day open again, or if the universe moves my execution date up, or if I decide to jump off my third-story balcony after all.

Instead of saying goodbye, I’m going to say “see you later”, because if I can’t be decisive, then I will at least be spiteful.

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