It's been another depressed, morose, sleepless night. Talking Heads plays, quietly, from my laptop speakers--"Burning Down the House" ends with this sentence. My vision is blurred, my eyes are bleary, I have indigestion--I don't care. I can't go to sleep. If I went to bed now, I would sleep through my commitments. I am, however, insane, and this is entirely clear to me after tonight's events. Sad, but true.
To be insane means to not be sane. There is some deficiency or defect in my mind which causes me to be depressed, which causes me to be an insomniac, which causes me to hate myself at times. Insanity of some sort is undoubtedly the root of my eccentricities and self-destructive behavior. Of course, the "sane" mind is hard to come by in general, but not all insanity is the same. Some of it is alluring, exotic, sexy--alcoholism, for instance, or an oral fixation. Insomnia and depression are far from sexy. Insomnia and depression are pathetic and repulsive--no girl wants a man who seldom sleeps through the night, and spends most of their time unhappy and unmotivated, incapable of feeling pleasure or recognizing that which is good in their lives. Perhaps sanity is more a state than a quality; perhaps sanity and insanity come and go, or change with the seasons. Perhaps the sane mind is an Essentialist concept, an idealized, hypothetical form which exists nowhere in reality, and all we know is insanity. Perhaps the sane are merely those who acknowledge their own eccentricities. At any rate, though, there is much that is not quite right about me.
It's six in the morning now, and I'm writing for a blog that nobody reads. Perhaps I will find a follower or two at some point if I keep promoting it heavily enough.
Anyway...on to my wild night. I watched three films tonight: Annie Hall (which was amazing,) Cool Hand Luke (which was amazing,) and Sarah Silverman: Jesus Is Magic (which was distinctly mediocre.) I did this in the early morning, as opposed to sleep. Naturally, the self-loathing thoughts went on in the background the entire time--that's where I'm at these days. Believe me when I insist that I didn't ask to be this way. Basically, while I watched Annie Hall, all I could think was that I was disappointed in myself for not being as smart as Woody Allen. During Cool Hand Luke, I very seriously considered trying to match Luke's egg-eating feat--then the self-loathing set in again, because I'm not as handsome or charismatic as Paul Newman, and while I may be a nonconformist like Luke Jackson was, I'm not the same in any way. My brand of nonconformity is not the sexy Hollywood nonconformity of Luke Jackson, it's the kind of chubby, awkward "confound-even-the-hipsters" nonconformity that captivates nobody. I got to thinking about my male role models--my dad first and foremost, followed by the likes of Clint Eastwood, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, and so on--and realized that I have turned out unlike any of them, and I'm also somewhat ashamed of that fact. It's silly, perhaps, but it affects me deeply. As to the third film: I got depressed here too, because Sarah Silverman is a very attractive young woman, and I know I will never be in a romantic relationship with a woman like that. Chances are I will never be in a relationship with a woman, period--I'm not attractive enough, not smart enough, not charming enough, I have too many weird hang-ups, I'm a little pretentious, I deliberate too much and act too little, I can't relate to many people on many issues, and ultimately I'm simply an unsuitable mate. It's a shame, but at least I'm not stringing some poor young lady along, constantly disappointing her when she could be with a much better man. At least I am alone, and not inconveniencing some poor sweet girl who took pity on a loser such as myself. I know, I had to reach a little to reach that from Sarah Silverman: Jesus Is Magic, but it's a subject which has been on my mind a lot lately, and it bothers me.
After I watched these pieces, I listened to music for a few minutes, played Sudoku, and did some more introspective reflection. I didn't solve any of my problems, but only really made myself even more aware of my failings--hell, I even feel bad for something as silly as having never read anything by D.H. Lawrence. I'm reaching a point where all of my faults, no matter how small they are, are magnified very intensely by my ego, to the point where I've started to develop psychoses out of practically everything. Of course, I feel uncomfortable in the social world, and so I feel like I don't even have peers to reassure me that my existence is worthwhile. Even those who would call themselves my friends could do just fine without me--I occupy very little of their time, and my actions are of such little consequence to them. There are few who know me whose lives would be impacted negatively if they were to never see me again. That's where I stand. In school, and in the workplace (back when I did work,) I'm less of a person than I am an occupational hazard--I'm essentially just that one extremely uncomfortable thing that everyone has to deal with occasionally. In an environment where physical contact is particularly common, I am the sole individual who cannot touch another--my very touch is unsettling, as far as I can tell.
Basically, I'm very depressed. I'm overweight, I lack charisma, I'm socially retarded, I'm less intelligent and less motivated than my peers, I have serious self-image problems, and I feel incredibly lonely. What I want in my life is a girl who I can hold myself against without feeling awkward about it, one who will accept my flaws for what they are, and one who I do not feel the need to constantly apologize to. I want a discipline or area of interest or expertise that I can devote my life to--and I want it to be one which I will feel happy with constantly and consistently, I want it to be one which I will not be embarrassed by, and I want it to be one I'm capable of doing, in addition to loving it. I also want to take on a regular sleep schedule again. It may happen soon.
As humans, we all want things. It's just that I've reached a point where my wants, in addition to other factors, has caused me to be miserable essentially all the time. Even when I smile or laugh or give off the appearance of happiness, there is always a subtext of misery.
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