journal of an american psycho, part 2

been a while, old friend.  clean slate?  tell that to the ghosts.  they've been knocking around in this old head of mine...conspiring through the walls where they've been captured..err...were captured.  i should probably leave that analogy dead in its tracks.  but the fact is they're here, really here, and i'm not bottling them, and hiding them in places any longer.

mystic thought would have me forgetting my ego, transcending myself so to speak; and believe me, i've tried on a daily basis for years.  when i really concentrate i can get it, and other times when i'm not paying attention–mind so numb it doesn't want to function anymore–i get it then, too.  those are the islands.  was it Huxley that said we are our own island universe?  i forget.  i don't think my transcending self has been natural.  if there was a line, say from chicago to new orleans that represented a natural progression toward enlightenment, or simply a calm, quiet, well being, then i would have to say that when my mind goes black i'm somewhere in the upper stratosphere falling toward some point along that line.  the harder i fight self, the stronger it comes back.  this has led me to believe that i've needed these few steps back in order to make it a couple steps forward, comfortably.  one foot in front of the other, firmly planted on the ground.  everything out in the open.

i've been considering lately the possibility that all of the drugs i've taken have come back to bite me in the ass, and maybe i'm permanently fucked up because of them.  i don't know how seriously to consider this for the sheer fact that i've known plenty of people who have done more drugs than your average touring funk band, and all in all, they are quite fine individuals.  i was never a junky.  i never did drugs on a regular basis, ever.  i've never done heroin or crack or meth, but given the mental state of certain family members, i would say the drugs could do nothing but compound the problem.  i have my doubts, but i won't rule it out.

the truth is things aren't bad.  things certainly aren't fantastic, but i shouldn't have anything to complain about, or be as grumpy as i am.  family is alive and well.  on a decent course in life that i feel confident about.  i'm beyond  broke and quite a bit lonely at times, but the money thing doesn't bother me so much because i'm disgusted with 'things' anyway.  i could use some love.  i hear there are worse things than being alone, and i believe that to be the truth.

i am a fear-filled person.  i may look and sound like a hard ass on the outside sometimes, but rest assured those are just well developed defense mechanisms.  i'm scared of people.  i don't like public places because i hate people.  yet i force myself into those places and situations constantly in hopes that maybe i'll develop as a person.  im an adolescent again, entering freshman year, completely the object of scrutiny; but instead of all of the hate coming from the farm kids picking on the city kid, coming from the outside in, i'm turning my insides out with self-doubt, feelings of inadequacy, and sometimes all out self hatred.  the best example i can give of what goes on in my head is in the movie Adaptation.  Kaufman's monologues are very similar to what goes on in my head on a second to second basis, 85 percent of the time.  i have done some reading up on the brain and from what i've gathered, thinking at the rate that i do uses a hell of a lot of energy.  this would explain the constant fatigue, and also might have something to do with my not gaining weight. ever.

even with my closest friends, despite their subtle and even not-so-subtle reassurances that should tell me i'm an a-okay person, i still question my worth as a person in their company.

i don't feel better than people.  not even necessarily do i  always think that i'm worse than people.  i just feel different than people.  i don't understand them.  i don't understand the constant striving for money and possessions.  i don't understand the constant diluting of a culture by the next pop sensation.  do people read anymore, or is that a lost art?  i don't understand the closed-mindedness.  i don't understand the fighting against stereotypes when they are reinforced, in my eyes, day to day.  i don't understand why everyone is so standoffish, and when somebody such as myself isn't, there's always something that comes back to kick that person in the ass three-fold.

i am an old person who doesn't want to grow up?  until recently i would have been ashamed to admit that i'm a very intelligent person who lacks a lot of so-called common sense knowledge, and/or life skills.  before this year i couldn't have cooked anything unless it came out of a box with instructions.  i set my bills to pay automatically because i'm so forgetful of things, they'd never be on time.  i've relied on people too much, such as family.  i don't have a savings account.  small talk is a big deal.  i've no wit whatsoever.  just cynicism that rubbed off on me in a friendship that no longer is, that i try to pass off as wit in those situations that call for quick comebacks.  i'm super bad with names.  i'm a super good listener if there's a chance that i can have some sort of relationship with the person, but if i don't like them, tough luck.  i can't see that side of the coin, and i don't expect them to see mine.  i'm stubborn as hell.  i change my mind all the time.  <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />st1:placest1:Citynew york</st1:City>, st1:StateLA</st1:State>, st1:country-regionnew zealand</st1:country-region></st1:place>…fuck it, i'll end up here working at a gas station, or a bum/prophet.  meet me behind the new chain restaurant.  the food is still warm.

i don't know if i'm lucky or damned to have people who support me all the way, but i can't help but feel like someone should have thrown me into the deep end a long time ago.  here i am, all dry, with the attention span of a 5 year old dyslexic, delusions of grandeur, sexual frustration and inadequacies of a pubescent boy, "knowledge" beyond my years, and the senility of a 75 year old dementia patient.